


Peace Is The Opposite of War

by Dragon_Shaman



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (semi) slow-burn, Alternative Universe - Mages Have Guardians, Anders Cares Too Much, Andraste Was A Mage, Angry Red Hawke, Both Hawke Twins Lived, Canon Divergence, Circles Are Not Shitty, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fenris Finally Gets His House Cleaned, Fenris Is Bad With Feelings, Fenris Is Not Amused, Fluff, Graphic Violence, Guardian!Fenris, Isabela Makes Too Many Sex Jokes, Lore Divergence, M/M, Meredith Needs To Die, Merrill is adorable, None-Justice!Anders, Past Rape/Non-con, References To Rape/Torture, Romance, Ser Alrik Is Disgusting, Templars Are Assholes, Trauma, Wynne Is Too Old For This Bullshit, i love these assholes, warrior hawke- Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_Shaman/pseuds/Dragon_Shaman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Anders loses his Guardian during the first of a series of kidnappings, a new Guardian is chosen for him—Fenris, the last person anyone expected. But as they say: the spirits are never wrong, and pushed together not only by their shared bond but by the feelings they have for each other, the two eventually settle in a life of love, companionship and trust.<br/>However, a war is brewing between Templars and mages. Frightening rumors are starting to cause a panic all across Thedas. And the Tranquil Cult is rising again. It is not long before Anders’ and Fenris’ lives are thrown into chaos as they are forced to face demons, darkspawn and Templars with frightening new powers. As they fight not only for their survival, but that of all the mages in Thedas, their relationship is tested as are their perceptions of what it truly means to be a Guardian and a Healer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fanfic ever so I apologize for any unintentional OOC-ness (there are a few times were it WILL be intentional due to mage-Guardian interactions and my inability to NOT deviate from canon) 
> 
> Warning--this story starts out VERY dark (I did not mean for it to do so these assholes developed a life of their own the moment I started writing!) but I promise THERE WILL BE LIGHT! I am aiming for a happy ending here! And while I only partly know where this is going I am planning on making a wild ride for both of us--there will be fluff, there will be angst, there be death and demons and great feats of magic--and if I can get this to go the way I want it to, there will be smut! 
> 
> Shoutout to my lovely beta and brother, and to Heromaggie and Lamenta whose stories inspired to me try my own hand at fanfiction! 
> 
> (Also, Anders and Fenris won't make much of an appearence right at the start, I apologize for that, Fiona, Wynne and some others took over before I could stop them but you won't have to wait more than a chapter before they have greater roles so no worries! This is supposed to be a Fenders story afterall!)  
> (Tags to be updated as story progresses) 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are welcome--Enjoy!

_“The first law is to honor, cherish and love your mage. The second is to protect—even if you must die to do so.”_

_—Unknown, Way of the Guardians._

 

 

They were too late.

            Even before they reached the ancient, abandoned fortress that lay deep in the wasteland known as the Western Approach, she had known they were too late to save them. Yet still she had searched for them as desperately as the rest. Because of Nirra’s tale—because of who had taken them, and why…

           

 

 

…They had been taken a year ago—twenty mages, three of which were adults who had all been bound to a Guardian. The rest were students from the Velun Circle, each with their own Escort. Nirra—a young elven woman from the Dalish clan that typically roamed the area around the Nahashin Marshes, and a Guardian—had gone out with the others to Lake Celestine to start the younger mages’ basic training in elemental magic. It was the first day of spring; warm and sunny with a light breeze and blooming trees all around, it had seemed the perfect day for such a lesson. Things had gone smoothly (as smoothly as they can go with seventeen mages no older than twelve learning ice and earth magic for the first time that is) until around midday. That was when they attacked.

            “They” were a group of over twenty fully armored Templars who marched out of the trees, weapons drawn, shields up, followed by five hulking Tal-Vashoth. Nirra had heard then long before they reached the lake, but had thought it no more than a far out patrol or possibly a guard for a Chantry Cleric. The others seemed to think the same, for when they were close enough that the rest, all human, could hear them as well, they simply looked up or paused a moment to listen, then went back to their lessons. Whatever the others had thought—despite if they thought her crazy or paranoid—if she had known why they were really there, she would have told the others to flee the moment the sound of heavy metal boots stomping  the forest floor reached her sensitive ears. But she had not. It was for this reason she blamed herself wholeheartedly for what happened next.

Two of the adult mages immediately created shields around themselves and the others before hurling spells at their attackers while their Guardians—Nirra and a woman named Audrey—drew their weapons and flung themselves headlong into battle. The third Guardian, Talon, had drawn his claymore and taken a fighting stance in front of his mage who was desperately trying to summon what Nirra guessed from the words he chanted to be a spirit of Peace. (When asked why he would summon a Peace spirit instead of one of Fortitude or Strength, Nirra had simply said “Peace is the opposite of war, aint it?”) Their efforts were in vain, however, for the moment Nirra and Audrey attacked, every last Templar cast smite on all the mages at once.

The effect was immediate and painful—the students, unprepared for such an attack, screamed in shock as they were suddenly cut off from the fade, and many went unconscious even before they were flung backward. Two of the older mages stayed conscious throughout, though they were violently sick, and the third cracked his head on a rock upon hitting the ground, dying on impact. Audrey fell to her knees at this, screaming in rage and anguish as she felt her connection with her mage be wrenched away as his soul passed into the Fade and the vibrant mark over her heart turned grey and ashy. She clutched her head and clawed at the ground, wailing and screaming her apologies to the Maker and her mage for failing in fulfilling her oath to protect him. A Tal-Vashoth took advantage of this by killing her with a blow to her head with his war hammer, smashing her skull like an egg. Nirra had been knocked back along with Audrey and the mages, coming away with thankfully nothing more than a few bad cuts and bruises. Talon—a fearsome Templar with a short temper who’d been named Night Captain at nineteen—managed to use his own Templar Willpower to stay on his feet. Springing back up, Nirra cast her fallen comrades a pained look before rushing over to Talon to join him in facing their enemies. The Templars advanced quickly after casting, the smite having smashed the mages’ shields apart like glass leaving them open to attack. Talon’s mage, Alhmanic, had tried put up more shields, but only succeeded in making himself sick again. Nirra’s mage, Relina, had scrambled to Alhmanic’s side, putting her staff in front of them as though it could shield them from the appending attack. Alhmanic held her while trying frantically to reconnect to the fade while Nirra and Talon’s weapons clashed with that of the Templars and Tal-Vashoth.

Nirra fought harder than she ever had that day. The pain and fear her mage felt flowed throw their bond like liquid fire, mingling with her own rage and fear of possibly losing Relina. The combined emotions made her vision go red as it fueled her strength and heightened her speed, making her like a whirlwind of vengeful blades. Beside her, Talon fought like a rage demon. He cut his way through three Templars the moment they were in reach before slicing open a Tal-Vashoth’s stomach and then cutting off his head when he doubled over. His attack had been quick enough to cause the other Templars and even the remaining Tal-Vashoth to hesitate for a moment—just enough time for Nirra to slice the throats of two more Templars before their assailants continued their attack. Despite the fact that Nirra and Talon were still outnumbered, they were quickly evening the odds, the feeling of their mages’ beating hearts and desperate will to live flowing through their bonds, keeping them strong and determined as they fought.

Yet in the end, it was all for nothing. Just when it seemed like they would win the fight and send the rest running, one of the remaining Tal-Vashoth managed to gain the upper hand when Talon…slipped…on a pool of his own blood from an arm wound he hadn’t noticed, and crashed to the ground. Such a stupid thing to be the cause of his death, but the cause it was as the Tal-Vashoth rammed his sword through Talon’s chest and deep into the ground. Nirra turned from her attackers for just a moment her shocked cry mixing with Alhmanic’s anguished scream as yet another bond was cruelly severed. That distraction was all that was needed for a Templar to bash her head with his shield, knocking her to the ground.  

The last thing she was aware of before her vision went dark was a Templar’s foot descending toward her face, and Relina screaming her name.

Everything went black.

 

When she came to, it was night and all the attackers were gone—along with the mages, even the dead one. She had no idea how long she had been out, nor why they had not finished killing her. But none of that mattered, not when she needed to find her stolen mage. Breathing hard, her heart beating frantically in her chest, she tried to sit up and search for Relina—only to fall back with a groan and clutch at her head. She ached all over. Her mouth was dry and her throat was parched. And she was so very, very tired. She wanted desperately to sleep. But even greater than that need was the need to find her mage. She could feel through the bond that Relina was still alive—alive and terrified. As her Guardian, she had a Maker-given duty to find her and bring her home. And because of the bond, that duty was a need that went soul-deep. So, despite her aching body and fatigue, she forced herself to her elbows, pausing to suck in a few pained breaths as her ribs protested, then slowly, painfully, rose to her feet.

When she was standing, swaying as she forced her eyes to stay open, she took in as much as she could of the darkened landscape. It helped that as an elf she could see in dark. And it was that ability that allowed her to see the carnage left over from the fight. Bodies, severed limbs and blood covered the grass around the lake where they’d been attacked. Some of the blood had run into the lake, tinting the water near the edge a dark red. Nirra frowned, thinking there were too many bodies for so many of their enemies to have escaped. Noticing the uniform on some of them, she realized the extra bodies were due to all the Escorts having been slaughtered, their bodies left to rot with the rest. She found herself wishing they had been taken instead of killed—there would’ve been a chance to save them then. Yet, while saddened by this, she steeled herself, knowing that at that moment she needed to focus on finding her mage instead of what could’ve been.

The stench of blood and rotting flesh made her wrinkle her nose in disgust as she searched the clearing for any sign of where they attackers could have gone. Admittedly, she was not the greatest tracker, and her vision—blurred by pain and tears—made it hard for her to see anything other than the carnage at her feet and the landscape around her, night vision or not. Flies buzzed around her and the rotting bodies, obscuring her vision even more. Her ears flicked as they tried to use them as a perch. She strained her already sensitive hearing, praying they would pick up something, no matter how slight, that would lead her to Relina. But she heard nothing but the flies and the occasional sound of nocturnal animals—saw nothing but the gruesome scene left over from the battle.

Then suddenly—a sound. Directly to her right. Slight, so quiet she almost didn’t it hear over the flies, but it was there. The sound of a twig snapping as something heavy—a metal boot?—walked on it. It wasn’t much of a lead—but she was desperate. So she limped as fast a she could toward the noise, ignoring her body’s protests and calling out for Relina. The farther she walked the more tired and frantic she became. Her desperation quickly turned to panic as she felt Relina’s own panic through the bond. No. NO! She sped up as much as she could, calling out louder, screaming until her voice grew horse, listening for anything, _anything_ that would lead her to her mage so she could save her. Because she needed to save her—now! They were hurting her, hitting her, cutting her, bleeding her— _touching her_. Then, just as she burst into a clearing, startling a group of some ten campers circling a dying fire, she froze—and crashed to her knees, screaming and crying and wailing and clawing at her head, her chest, whatever she could reach. The campers rushed over to her, trying to help, asking her what was wrong, what is it, is it your wounds, are they poisoned, are they infected, is something broken, please tell us what’s hurting you, tell us how we can help! But there was nothing they could do. For this new pain had nothing to do with her body’s wounds and everything to do with the fact that she had failed. She had failed; Relina was gone. _Dead_. And it was all Nirra’s fault. She had broken her oath and now Relina—sweet, gentle Relina who had loved animals and children and chosen to serve the Chantry so that she could spend her days helping the faithful stay on the Maker’s path—was no more. Nirra curled into a tight ball, hardly hearing as one of the campers sent another back to Velun for aid, and let the grief take her. She begged the Maker to forgive her and take Relina to His side before letting the darkness swallow her as she waited for death—and after death, judgement.

 

Except Nirra did not die that night. The campers tended to her wounds as best they could until the young man they’d sent to Velun returned the next day on horseback with six mages and their Guardians and some city guards. They took Nirra back to Velun, where after a Healer healed all her wounds and fixed her broken bones, she told her story to the mages and Guardians who had gathered at the Circle where she rested. One of those mages was Grand Enchanter Fiona, who had been there for the Bonding Ceremonies that were scheduled to occur that week. All of them shuddered as she described how each bond was severed. All present were bound mages and Guardians—the younger mages and Escorts having been sent to their rooms as the Circle was put under lockdown due to the attack until further notice—and could only be thankful they had not suffered in such a way.

Once she had finished her tale and answered all their questions as best she could in her state, she stared blankly at the wall. She refused to eat or sleep, waiting until she was called by the Grand Cleric to perform the ceremony all Guardians who failed to fulfill their oaths did. It was simple and quick, done to atone for their failure. She stood in the center of the amphitheater on the ground floor. All the bonded mages and their Guardians (along with the Grand Cleric, the Circle’s First Enchanter, the Grand Enchanter, the Divine, and Empress Celine) watched her as she took the ceremonial sword that had been handed to her. She raised her head to the ceiling in prayer and then drove it through her breast. She fell to the ground, smiling as she passed into the Fade at the knowledge that she had been able to give up her life here in apology since she had failed in giving it in defense of her mage.

There was a moment of silence as all in attendance gave her their respect for her bravery to face her crime, and prayed that the Maker would have mercy on her. Then a couple of Chantry Mothers took her body away to be cremated with those of the other fallen Guardians.

It was after this that the Divine stood up, demanding everyone’s attention and declared that the Chantry would do all it could to find the remaining mages. Empress Celine stood up as well, and said she would offer any aid she could. The search was started by sending the strongest mages (save the First Enchanters who it was decided would stay to guard their Circles and keep order) and their Guardians that served both the Chantry and the Empire of Orlais—including Grand Enchanter Fiona—to the sight of the attack.

It was there that they found it. Carved crudely into the breastplate of every dead Templar was the sunburst symbol. Having long ago been twisted into a mockery of all that Andraste and the Chantry stood for by being the thing that marked a mage made tranquil, it struck fear into the heart of every mage and Guardian present, despite the fact that it had not been seen for centuries—not since the time of the Tranquil cult. Many refused to touch it while others could not bear to even look at it. And to make matters worse, that attack was only the beginning.

Several other attacks occurred throughout the year until just a few weeks before Fiona and her party set out to the fortress. The one Nirra faced was only one of two group attacks, the other occurring just off the shore of Cumberland in the Waking Sea. It ended with fifteen mages—two bound adults, the rest students—being taken. Like the first attack, the bodies of the murdered Guardians and Escorts were left behind, this time to float in the bloodstained water with pieces of the destroyed ship. No one had survived that attack, but some people on the shore had reported seeing a Templar vessel attack the ship. Some had thought to row out and try to help, but admitted they had been afraid the Templars would only kill them as well and so just watched, stunned. The other attacks were small ones that ended in one or two mages—all bound adults—being taken, their slaughtered Guardians left behind. The fact that all of the adults taken were mages versed in the crafting of magical items and knowledgeable of relevant ancient lore and recent discoveries did not bode well in Fiona’s opinion.

And at the sight of each attack—be it on the body of a dead Templar or carved into the forehead of a dead Guardian or the ground or a nearby structure—was that accursed symbol. The very thing that confirmed time and time again that they were already far too late…

 

 

 

…And now she and those same mages and their Guardians who had started the search stood on a hill that overlooked the fortress where those mages had been held—were still being held if Leliana’s reports were correct. Fiona trusted her; she was the left hand of the Divine and she had never been wrong before. Looking at the ancient building, she was willing to admit she was afraid of what they would find, but she was the Grand Enchanter. She could not show her fear lest she spread unnecessary fear among the mages who followed her. As head of the Circle of Magi, it was her duty to lead the mages and their Guardians under the Chantry—to be calm and strong and make the hard decisions when others would not, _could_ not. So with a heavy but determined heart, she straightened her back, held her head high and led the group of over fifty mages and Guardians down the path leading to the fortress.

She knew they were too late.

She just hoped they could give them a quick death.

And kill the bastards who had done this.  


	2. Adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona and her group find the mages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing graphic besides violence and gore described in this chapter but I am still going to say possible trigger warning for:
> 
> referenced/implied rape/non-con, torture, starvation, blood, slaughter and other similar things. I'm not going to linger on anything longer than necessary, but I thought I'd put the warning out just in case.

_Of all the decisions we Grey Wardens were forced to make over the lean years, withdrawing from the fortress of Adamant was perhaps the most difficult. It had been built as a bastion against darkspawn spilling out from the Abyssal Rift, a symbol of how we had done the impossible, pushing those creatures back into the shadows where they belonged. We kept the land safe from further encroachment, but as each new Age dawned, memories of our sacrifice became fainter. The entire Western Approach had become a wasteland, and thus the expense of maintaining the fortress became increasingly difficult to justify. There were no griffons to fill its weyrs, too few Wardens to man its battlements, too many good men and women killed by demons creeping through the thinning Veil... each visit of the Warden-Commander made it more apparent that Adamant had become a symbol of our decline. Even if darkspawn still emerged from the chasm, who would they threaten other than the Wardens themselves?_

_So in the dawn of the Blessed Age, we sealed the fortress's mighty gates. We left the great griffon statues to tarnish in the blowing sand, retreating to Montsimmard with a sense of loss and shame. I returned recently with a small expedition to retrieve supplies, surprised to see it still standing. The dwarves did well by us; I suspect Adamant will remain for ages to come... but should the Order ever return, they will find it difficult to resurrect. Only spirits roam its halls now, alongside the memories of those who gave their lives to protect us all from darkness._

 

— _From the journal of Veldin, Grey Warden of Orlais, 8:58 Blessed_

 

           

 

From the outside, the fortress was formidable: its jetstone walls and metal ramparts stood tall and proud against the bright desert sky with its ancient weyrs jutting out over the Abyssal Rift. A monument to dwarven craftsmanship and a testimony to the strength of the Wardens, it was an awe-inspiring piece of architecture despite it having been abandoned around the beginning of the Blessed Age.

            Inside its walls was another story entirely. Their best elementalist, a mage named Trill, smashed its front gates open with a stone fist spell revealing an overgrown courtyard with stairs leading up to the battlements, and another gate leading inside the building itself. Another stone fist and they were truly inside the fortress—and immediately greeted with the stench of blood, excrement, and rotting flesh.

Fiona gagged and slapped a hand over her mouth, trying desperately not to vomit. The smell was bad enough by itself, but due to the bond she could smell it not only through her nose but through her Guardian’s—and vice versa. Physical pain was felt through the bond as a kind of muted sensation: strong enough to let one know how and where the other was hurt and how badly, but weak enough that it did not hinder a mage’s ability to cast or a Guardian’s ability to protect. Senses, such as taste, smell and physical pleasure—along with emotions—were shared in equal measure between both mage and Guardian. In most cases, this was an advantage and something Fiona quite enjoyed. Now, however, it felt more like a curse. The others felt the same if their retching and disgusted grumbles were anything to go by. None of them envied her though—they were all aware that it was even worse for her because of Tashaan’s heightened sense of smell.

Tashaan was Qunari—Tal-Vashoth to be precise. Unlike most Tal-Vashoth, Tashaan hated missionary work; had in fact left the Qun because he refused to be the soldier they wanted him to be preferring to create instead of destroy. That was not to say he wasn’t strong and a fierce protector whenever Fiona was threatened, he simply did not want killing and constant training to be his life, especially if it was to be done unquestioningly in the name of a cause he did not believe in. Because of this, after leaving he traveled all across the Southern part of Thedas, doing odd jobs such as helping to build houses, find missing people, drive out pests and even herding sheep and druffalo in order to earn coin. He did take a few guard jobs, but only if he believed the cause to be a worthy one—such as helping to fight any demons that may escape the Fade should a Bonding go wrong. This was why he was present when Fiona and her class were graduating. The Spirits were summoned and when it was her turn to be bound, they chose Tashaan as her Guardian to her and everyone else’s surprise; it was rare for a Guardian to be something other than elf or human. But no one protested—after all, the spirits were never wrong—and she had been overjoyed at her new bond. She still was, really—she just wished there was some way to turn off her sense of smell until they left the Fortress.

True to their nature, the Guardians quickly put aside their own discomfort to see to the mages first. They found and gave them handkerchiefs to wrap around their mouths and noses before seeing if there was anything left they could use for themselves. Tashaan handed her one such handkerchief with an apologetic smile. She took it gratefully, sending reassurance through their bond that he did not need to apologize; it was not his fault he could smell dinner cooking a mile away. He smiled back at her—his joy at being able to help her in even this small way evident through their bond—before ripping off a piece of the large tunic he wore under his armor to wrap around his own face when another handkerchief could not be found.

            After some more fussing over the mages by their Guardians—and some half-hearted grumbling on the part of the mages—Fiona and the other mages called small magelights into their palms, allowing them to see the otherwise pitch black hall they were in. The sight that greeted them made their stomachs churn and many turned away, finally giving into the urge to vomit while their Guardians did what they could to soothe them. Fiona’s ears dropped along with her heart as she stared at the destroyed room.

Blood, thick and red covered the walls from top to bottom, dripping off the stone ceiling and pooling on the floor where severed limbs and what could only be described as large chunks of flesh were strewn about. Bloodstained rags and random pieces of jewelry were scattered amongst the body parts, along with pieces of debris. A few of the large pillars in the room were cracked as though something massive had been thrown against them, and pieces of some of the inner walls were missing leaving the rooms beyond open to view. From what they could see through these holes, the carnage before them was not limited to this room. Yet the worst part of this was not the blood or the bodies—it was the silence. The fortress was deathly quiet, the only sounds the group’s breathing and shuffling as they stared in shock at the butchery before them.

            Though the state of the inside of the fortress left the group feeling disheartened and frightened, they pressed on, driven by their increased determination to rescue the mages from this Maker-forsaken place. Leliana’s spies had reported that the mages were being held in the lower tunnels of the fortress, likely the second half. Apparently they had been smuggled in through secret passages that were inaccessible from the outside due to them having been built as escape routes should the fortress become overrun during a blight. Therefore, they needed to find one of the entrances leading to the tunnels from inside the fortress itself. So, traveling through what seemed like countless rooms and hallways, that is what they did.

 It was slow going, the maps and directions they had been given before leaving all but useless with all the heaps of whole and torn up corpses to navigate around, and large piles of debris blocking passages and doorways. For a while, Trill was able to use stone fist to blast their way through the blockages, but eventually grew tired from the multiple castings despite Jester, her Guardian, feeding her strength as they went. He opted to carry her on his back so she wouldn’t trip or run into something in her exhaustion. After that, Tashaan did his best to help them pick a path through the wreckage, moving aside what he could so they could squeeze through. Even then there was much backtracking and frustrated cursing as tempers grew short and patience thin the longer they were there.

            Finally, after what felt like days but was likely no more than a few hours, they reached a door that matched the description of the entrance to the lower tunnels. This would have been cause to celebrate if not for the debris that blocked it. Half-buried in rubble and wood and twisted steel, it almost looked as though the debris had been piled in front of it to keep something out—or in. Fiona frowned, the thought making her uneasy. Tashaan walked up to the mound of wreckage with the intention of seeing how best to start moving it out of their way when from her place on Jester’s back Trill said, “I can cast another stone fist.”

            Jester twisted so he could scowl at her. “You are still tired from all that casting you did earlier—let Tashaan and the other Guardians take care of it!”

            “Tashaan may be Tal-Vashoth but even with him and the others working together it’d still take them hours to move all that crap out of the way. A stone fist would take maybe twenty seconds!”

 “That doesn’t change the fact that you exhausted yourself casting!” Jester argued, ignoring Trill’s eye roll at his stubbornness. “Let Henry or Joy do it! Or better yet, let the Grand Enchanter do it!”

            “They aren’t as strong as me and you know it!” she shot back.

            “True,” Henry said as Joy nodded in agreement. Fiona simply gave a sharp nod. While her elemental magic was strong, Trill’s earth magic was stronger. Jester pointedly ignored all of them.   

            “They can combine their spells—!”

            “It would still take them much longer to get through it and despite what you may think we don’t have forever to rescue the mages we came here for!” Forcing herself to stop yelling she said, “Jester, I know you’re worried because even though you gave me a lot of strength earlier I still ended up getting exhausted enough you had to carry me, but I am aware of my own limits and abilities and I know I can blast through with another stone fist if you lend me enough strength for one more cast! Besides,” she added, matter-of-fact, “it’s been at least an hour since my last cast and you’ve been helping me to recover the entire time you’ve carried me. I _can_ do this—trust me!”

Jester sighed. “I do trust you,” he mumbled, resigned, before setting her down gently. Fiona raised her eyebrows at how quickly he gave in—usually he and Trill would argue for hours before one or the other showed even a sign of backing down. Then again, Trill had a fair point, and if there was one thing that could make a Guardian back down quickly, it was the idea that their actions could in any way lead to the harm of a mage.

Trill smiled at him, then took his hand with her right and raised her staff in her left to cast. The others quickly got behind her. Getting hit by flying debris from a stone fist spell was not something any of them wanted to experience. Her staff lit up as her power surged through it, the tip swirling green and brown as she drew it back then threw it forward, a massive fist made of green and brown stone barreling into the blockage. With a crash that rattled the hall, causing dust and bits of mortar to fall from the ceiling, the pile of rubble, wood and metal—along with the door—was reduced to nothing but bits and splinters. The others applauded her, happy to be so close to their goal. Trill gave Jester a smug smile even as she collapsed against him, her legs giving out from exhaustion. He returned her smile with an angry scowl that was completely ruined by the proud if exasperated look in his eyes. He quickly picked her back up so she could rest and they continued on—when a low, threatening sound rumbled through the hall from the now-open passage downward.   

Breathing harsh, hearts hammering, they all froze and stared into the darkness that stretched in front of them past the range of their magelights. As the first sound they had heard since entering the fortress, it did not bode well for what else could be down there besides the mages they had come for. When no other sound seemed forthcoming, Fiona wondered—hoped—if it hadn’t been a resounding echo from Trill’s spell. Her admittedly weak theory was quickly squashed when the sound came again—this time a lot closer, and quite obviously an angry snarl. It was soon followed by a chorus of other noises: high-pitched chitters and screeches; skitters and scratching sounds like that of nails raking stone; and sickeningly wet, obscene sounds that reminded Fiona of flesh hitting a hard surface. The thought made her shudder as it brought up old, painful memories she’d done her best to forget. She was quickly brought out of her thoughts by Tashaan pushing her behind him roughly—though whether that was a boon or a curse she was not sure, for those sounds were growing louder and closer at an alarming rate.  

While the mages drew their staves and put up shields, the Guardians quickly put themselves in front of them and drew their weapons, creating a living barricade against whatever was nearing them. Tashaan, being the strongest and fiercest Guardian in the group, stood in the very front, the unspoken leader and strategist for this fight. Trill, too tired now to attempt even the smallest of spells was put behind the other mages who ignored her indignant sputters at not being allowed to at least watch the fight, despite being almost dead on her feet. Her protests stopped the moment the source of the noises came into view.

The first thing they saw was grotesque, to say the least. It was also massive, its head brushing the ceiling. Its stomach and head were stretched and bulbous, appearing as though they were filled to the point of bursting—with what Fiona did not want to speculate. Its limbs (what could be seen of them around its stomach) were small, almost skeletal, save one that had a kind of hooked claw at the end which dripped a fowl-smelling substance. Other, even smaller limbs jutted from its head, stomach and back, some hanging limply while others groped at the air as though searching for something. Teeth the size of daggers and just as sharp stretched its lipless mouth impossibly wide, its sunken eyes lost in the roles of flesh upon its face. As it lurched toward them, its feet unable to its support massive body, its slimy, wet skin smacked the stone floor, making the obscene wet noises they had been hearing. Though she had never before seen one, Fiona could only guess this thing was an abomination—a mage who had given into the call of a demon. While she supposed she should feel angry, she felt only sorrow for the mage who was now nothing but a demon’s mindless puppet. She could only imagine the things they had suffered to deem giving themselves to a demon a better alternative then whatever they had experienced here. The thought made her long to see the Templars who had kidnaped the mages hang. She felt her thoughts echoed by Tashaan through their bond as he prepared to attack. They had little time to think about this before the things making the other noises appeared behind the abomination.

Possessed corpses, rotting and covered in loose, bloodstained rags swarmed over the walls, floor and ceiling. While they were not as grotesque as the abomination, they were still a frightening sight with long, needle-thin teeth, sharp curved claws and dead, milky-white eyes. What skin they had left was stretched taught over their skeletal frames, their rags hanging off them loosely and dragging on the ground and along the walls as they crawled forward. Blood, dried and flacking, covered their faces, hands and necks and stained their teeth. Bits of rotting flesh hung from their mouths and claws like the rags they wore. A few of them wore stained pieces of jewelry, hinting at the people the corpses had once belonged to. Slick black tongues darted out as the possessed corpses chittered and screeched and hissed, looking at the mages and Guardians as though they had stumbled upon a feast.

            Shields were quickly put up as Fiona and the others readied their most destructive spells—save Trill, who despite the gravity of the situation deemed it appropriate to complain that she had “a bad view”. Fiona couldn’t help smiling at this even as Tashaan roared and led the Guardians into the battle while she and the other mages let loose fire, ice and electricity spells, lighting up the hallway like a multicolored sun and successfully decimating the first wave of corpses. Leave it to Trill to complain about the battle as though they were at a theater in Antiva.

            The second wave went down as quickly as the first. The third had the backup of the abomination, which had finally managed to reach them and was now trying to crush whoever got too close to it with its massive claw. Tashaan rolled to the side as a dark liquid spewed from its gaping maw, everything it touched starting to smolder as though acid had been thrown upon it. The sight made Fiona feel especially grateful for their shields that had yet to falter. He swung his massive hammer in an upward arch that had enough force behind it to snap the thing’s head up with a loud _crack_. This gave the Guardian, Rose—a rogue and former assassin—enough time to vault herself over Tashaan and slash her daggers across its eyes, blinding it. The thing screamed—a sound both shockingly, horrifyingly human and terrifyingly alien—before clutching at its face with a smaller limb while flailing blindly with the clawed one. Rose was caught by one of its blind swings and flung into a wall. Thanks to the shield around her she was only out of breath for a moment before she quickly got back up and, slicing a corpse in two, jumped back into the fray. Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona saw Rose’s mage, Annie, breath a shaky sigh of relief at this before flinging a rock of ice at a group of corpses with a cry.

            While the Guardians made sure to keep their fear and anxiety in check, the mages held those feelings back only enough so that they could focus on casting and strategy, letting them and their will to live flow otherwise unhindered through their bonds. Their Guardians reacted immediately; feeling these emotions from their mages they became enraged and focused in a way that bordered on insanity, going from civilized warriors and rogues to fierce, relentless predators in a heartbeat. Fiona smiled as she felt Tashaan’s bloodlust and adrenaline increase with the feelings she sent him as he started smashing through half-a-dozen corpses at a time while he and the others converged on the abomination.

            The abomination was finally slain when Jester managed to get past its wildly swinging claw and another torrent of dark liquid, and jumped onto its chest, driving his sword into its chest up to the hilt as he landed. Caught off balance, it fell back and landed with a crash. Another Guardian quickly severed its clawed arm just as Jester twisted his sword, causing the abomination to scream in pain before Tashaan silenced in by crushing its swollen head with his war hammer. The head burst like a melon, spewing blood and other putrid liquids all over the walls, floor and ceiling and the shields of the Guardians near it. The abomination having been the greatest threat, it was only a matter of time before they finished off the last of the corpses.

            When the battle was over, those who’d been sustaining the shields the entire time finally let them dissipate and collapsed in exhaustion. Even with their Guardians having fed them strength so their shields wouldn’t shatter, there had been enough corpses that that extra strength quickly became all that was keeping most of them conscious. Their Guardians, having come down from their battle high along with the others, gathered them up and set them where Jester was tending to Trill, making a small, protective circle around them. Having nothing left to complain about or blow up for the time being, Trill finally allowed herself to sleep with the others in this group, her head resting on Jester’s shoulder as she was cradled to his chest. The rest of the mages were enclosed in a larger circle around this smaller one by their Guardians since they had enough energy to stay awake, though many were too tired to stand after so much casting. The Guardians fussed, feeding them strength and praise and love through their bonds while they examined them for injuries, happy to find that due to none of the shields shattering, none of the mages had sustained any damage during the fight. The same went for the Guardians.  

            Once the mages got their Guardians to stop fussing, Tashaan said, “What do you want to do, Fiona?” Upon hearing the question, the others, mage and Guardian alike, all went silent and looked to her. Fiona thought.

With five mages asleep and eight too tired to cast much less walk—not to mention their Guardians who would leave their sides when the Void froze over—they were short almost a third of their group. The rest, though awake and able to cast, were tired after the fight. Whatever else they would have to face in the lower tunnels, at the very least there would be Templars and considering the effort the Templars had put into capturing the mages they now held prisoner, she had no doubt there would be at least one other fight. The rational decision, then, she reasoned, would be for them all to take a few moments to rest, eat, drink and allow the Guardians to help the mages recover fully so they would be ready to face whatever came next.

She had barely voiced this decision before she went rigid. The others who were elves or, like Tashaan, were bound to an elf did the same, while those who were not looked at them in wary confusion.  They looked up back the way they had come, into the darkness, the elves’ ears twitching as they listened. The sound was sharp and high-pitched—a screeching noise like a boiling tea kettle that came and went in an erratic rhythm. As it grew louder, the others were soon able to hear it as well. Weapons were drawn, spells were readied and shields were cast again as the Guardians stood in the same defensive stance they had before, this time facing away from the passage. Those who were asleep or too exhausted to cast were all set in the back, their Guardians staying with them, too afraid to leave them alone when they were so vulnerable.

            The sound grew louder still, became a chorus—then without warning three Despair demons shot out of the darkness. Though exhausted and unprepared for another attack so soon, Fiona was very good with fire spells and she and the other mages were able to make quick work of the demons before they could get any real hits in. However, with their best shield casters still unable to cast and she and the rest of the mages already tired from the last fight, the shields they created were weaker and close to shattering even after just sustaining a few blows. And that was only the start.

            Two rage demons appeared, their massive flaming bodies washing the hallway in an intense red light, quickly followed by dozens of shades. A couple of the mages did their best to sustain the old shields and prepare to put up new ones the moment they shattered while once again Tashaan led the charge and the mages let their fear—as well as their exhaustion—flood their bonds, giving their Guardians the boost they needed. It was still a hard fight—even weak demons were stronger then corpses any day. And a group of even weak demons was stronger than one abomination.

            Fiona cursed as the shields flickered out like dying lights before another set was hastily thrown up. She considered putting all her magic toward sustaining all the shields so the rest could fight without fear of injury, but immediately decided against it when two more rage demons glided out of the darkness. Having had no real time to recover, none of them had the strength to keep so many shields sustained alone, even with the help of their Guardians who were also tiring. And with how many demons there were, they needed everyone who could cast to throw as many offensive spells as they could muster just to hold the demons back. So it was focus on attacking and hope to the Maker they could each sustain their own shields.

It was a futile hope. She knew that with wave after wave of shades, rage demons and whatever else was hiding in the dark, they would not be able to win this fight. She was on the verge of panic because she knew they needed to escape somehow and still rescue the captured mages, meaning the most logical choice would be to flee into the tunnels and block the passage again somehow. And she was _angry_ —at the Templars for taking mages and imprisoning them here; at demons and monsters in general; and most of all, she was angry at herself. Possessed corpses were a dead giveaway that there were demons about since you couldn’t get one without the other. She just hadn’t thought that they would be up here seeing as the abomination and corpses had come from the tunnels. But that mattered little—she still should’ve thought to prepare them for demons. Right after the first attack she should’ve prepared them. But she hadn’t and now they would be lucky to live through the next few minutes.

            As the battle raged around her, the Guardians with exhausted mages desperately doing all they could to keep them away from the fight while the rest put all they had left into it, Fiona wished they had a true Spirit Healer with them. But none had been sent. Due to their rarity and the crucial role they played in society—as well as the fact that one Healer had already been taken with seemingly little effort—the Chantry and Thedas Governments had been unwilling to risk losing any others. Those not currently serving, along with their Guardians, had been sent to the Grand Cathedral and put under the Divine’s and her Seekers’ personal protection. Those who were serving had each been given a personal Guard to help their Guardian watch over them by the ruler of the region they were serving. First Enchanter Wynne was the only exception.

As one who usually agreed with and often argued for whatever precautions and laws the Chantry put into place to keep mages protected, especially in times of crisis, it shocked everyone, her Guardian included, when she argued passionately with the Divine and the representatives from the Thedas Governments to instead be allowed to travel with Fiona’s group to help rescue the captured mages. Then she had brought up that despite Fiona’s and some of the other mages’ knowledge of healing magic, there was a great chance the mages they rescued would be in need of a Spirit Healer’s aid after what had likely been a year of torture—not to mention she was the strongest Healer not already serving at the time. They had finally relented—but only on the condition that she would not actually enter the fortress. Instead she would stay at a camp a few miles away with a full Guard and her Guardian at all times. Wynne had agreed to the terms. As more and more demons came out of the darkness Fiona desperately wished Wynne had been allowed to enter the Fortress with them. Having a mage that could summon a spirit of Strength or Faith to fight by their side would give them a priceless advantage. And possibly be the difference between life and death for them. But she hadn’t. They would just have to find another way to get through this.

She looked back at the passage then at the ceiling that was scarred from Trill’s last stone fist, and realized there was a way to escape. It was a small chance with little likelihood of success—but it was still a chance. She ran over to those not fighting and, pointing to the passage yelled, “All of you go down the passage into the tunnels! Quickly!”

            “What about the rest of you?” Jester yelled back. “If you stay here, you’ll be killed and then the demons will come after us!”   
            “I have a plan to get us all down there and away from the demons, but I need you all to go down first!” Fiona looked back at the fight just as Tashaan cut a rage demon in two, only for it to be replaced by another, bigger one. “Please,” she implored, looking back at the frightened group, “I need you to trust me now like you always have. I _will_ get us all through this, but you need to go down first for it to work!”

            The Guardians hesitated, their instinct to fight waring with their instinct to get their mages to safety. The second instinct won. The thirteen Guardians carried their mages down the tunnels as fast as they could, disappearing into the gloom. Fiona turned back to the battle once they were out of sight. While the bond did not precisely allow mages and Guardians to read each other’s’ thoughts, it did allow them to pick up impressions of the other’s decisions and ideas and what the other was seeing, as well as send more vivid versions of these to the other with a little concentration.  Fiona did this, showing Tashaan as best she could what she planned. He immediately sent a feeling of agreement through their bond. After knocking back five shades with a massive swing of his war hammer, he turned to the others fighting and boomed “Ryan, Hrum, Henry, Joy—you guys stay here with me—the rest of you, get into the tunnels! Fiona has a way to get us out of this and she needs you all in the tunnels to do it—NOW!”

            The other Guardians followed his orders immediately, grabbing their mages and carrying/dragging them to the tunnels. None of the mages protested at being carted away as though they were untaught students. They had started to feel their Guardians’ fear and anxiety overshadow the feelings of love and courage that flowed through their bonds, resulting in them beginning to think the situation hopeless, and so were as quick as the Guardians to latch onto any chance of survival. When the only ones left were Fiona, Tashaan and the Guardians and mages he had called to their side, Fiona quickly called up an ice storm that Tashaan fed with his strength, freezing the next wave of demons and temporarily blinding and blocking those behind from reaching them. They quickly retreated to the passage, stopping just inside the archway. After Tashaan told them the plan, Henry and Joy pointed their staffs at the ceiling and threw the strongest stone fist spells they could summon while Fiona and Tashaan kept the ice storm going. While the other mages’ spells were not as strong as Trill’s, each combined hit shook the hall and caused another patch of cracks to spread across the stone as more and more debris started to fall.

            Down the hall, more shades were starting to smash their way through their frozen kin, making their way through the storm using their sense of smell. And behind them out of the darkness, each step like a blow against the ground, stalked the biggest Pride demon Fiona had ever seen. Not that she had seen many demons in general, but the one that had tried to temp her during her Bonding had been twice her size and this one made the other look like an adolescent. Its broad shoulders stretched the width of the hall, grazing the walls. It was so tall the sharp horns on its massive head scraped the ceiling despite the fact that it was bent almost double. Electricity, bright and deadly sparked between its claws and danced across its pale flesh, lighting its way through the storm. Focusing its multiple eyes upon them, it bellowed and laughed. The shades before it responded by doubling their efforts to get through the storm.

            Sweat rolled down Fiona’s forehead. Her breath, along with Tashaan’s and the other mages and Guardians, was harsh and labored with the effort of casting so much in so short a time. Even with their Guardians giving them strength, they were tiring quickly. Watching as the Pride demon strode ever closer, smashing through multiple frozen shades at a time with broad sweeps of its arms, Fiona was suddenly thankful there were no Healers fighting with them. While Healers had a unique and powerful connection to the Fade that drew spirits to them and allowed them to summon those spirits, that connection was the very thing that drew demons to them more so than any other mage. This made them more vulnerable to temptation and possession than any other mage, making being their Guardian a great responsibility as well as a great honor. It was for this reason that while part of Fiona wanted nothing more than to have Wynne or anther Healer there, another part was glad no Healers were present with that monstrous Pride demon making its way slowly but surely through the storm. 

            The storm was slowly starting to fade along with her and Tashaan’s strength. Two more combined hits from the other two mages—and the stone making up the ceiling shifted suddenly, a deep grinding noise echoing through the hall. A moment later, the cracks and holes that had started to form widened and split until the entire ceiling collapsed just as the shades smashed through the last of their frozen kin. The last thing Fiona was aware of was Tashaan picking her up and barreling into the passage just as the shades and the Pride demon were crushed, screaming, under tons and tons of stone and metal, a massive cloud of dust billowing out from the wreckage.

 

 

 

***

             

             

Fiona woke with a gasp. She quickly sat up to gauge her surroundings and saw with relief that all of the mages and Guardians were safe. A number of mage lights had been cast and piled in a heap on the ground which the group circled, passing around food rations and water. Many were turning to Fiona, her relief mirrored in their faces as they each noticed she was awake. She noticed that none of their handkerchiefs or cloth strips had survived the fights—a shame since the fortress smelled no better down here. She felt as well as heard Tashaan laugh beside her at the sound of Trill complaining yet again about the fight. This time, her complaints centered mostly on the fact that she had missed seeing the ceiling collapse and the massive Pride demon, which Henry and Joy were cheerfully describing to her likely with exaggeration. Not that there was much one could exaggerate about such a huge demon—or even much reason to do so—but if there was anyone willing to try it was those two.

            Thinking about the fight, she twisted around and saw that the passage was blocked once again—this time up to the top of the archway with huge pieces of stone and metal. She doubted any demons still alive up there could get through that any time soon and was relieved.  

“You did a good job there, Fiona,” Tashaan rumbled, sending her feelings of love and praise through their bond. She turned to him just as he handed her some food rations and a water flask. She took it gratefully. Returning Tashaan’s feelings through the bond and giving him a proud smile, she settled against him as she ate.

After finishing off the last of the rations she said, “What happened after I fell unconscious?”

“Not much,” Tashaan rumbled, groaning a bit as he stretched the arm that wasn’t draped around her shoulders. “After the passage got closed off and nothing else jumped out to kill us we decided to go ahead and rest here for a bit since we were gonna do that anyway. You were only out for about twenty minutes.”

“Were there many wounded?”

“Nah, just a few of us Guardians got banged up—okay a lot of us,” he amended at Fiona’s cynical expression. “But it was just scrapes and bruises and the like, easily healed by the other mages here who knew a bit of healing magic. Nothing serious. Even with some of our best casters having to sit it out!” He raised his voice just enough for that last sentence to reach Trill, earning him a stuck-out tongue followed by an angry pout when he laughed. “But really, we’re all fine. Us Guardians have been feeding you mages strength ever since we set up our little camp here so even Trill can cast small spells again with help.”

Her mood lifted by the good news. “In that case, I propose we rest a little while longer then continue forward.  After what I’ve seen here, I am even more anxious to get the mages we came for out of this accursed place.”

“Won’t get any argument there,” he rumbled. The others agreed.

Despite deciding they would rest for a few more minutes, it was less than one minute before Trill stood up and announced that if they did not move on soon, she was going to go insane—they were so close to their goal, she simply couldn’t relax. Fiona and the others agreed; they could truly relax once they had rescued the captured mages. So, each mage taking a magelight from the pile, they continued forward.

Unease quickly gripped them as they followed their maps through the first half of the tunnels, looking for the areas where the secret passages led. Leliana had felt those were the most likely places for the mages to be. At first, the tunnels appeared untouched by the carnage above, despite the abomination and possessed corpses having come from there. Unlit torches, large tapestries and ancient griffon statues lined the stone walls and marked each new tunnel, all of it apparently well-kept. Yet the smell of blood and death permeated the air, as strong as ever. As they neared the door leading to the second half of the tunnels, signs of destruction started to appear.

Torches and holders, along with many of the statues and tapestries, had been smashed and torn and ripped from the walls which were decorated with deep grooves and blood smears. Still, it was not what they had been expecting from what they had encountered above. It was not until they’d come to a large iron door set between two statues that had been almost completely destroyed that they saw why the smell did not match the tunnels’ appearance.

The door was bent inward to the point of being almost broken open, as though it had been repeatedly hit with a battering ram. A large iron bar, also bent but unbroken, was visible through the door’s opening. With the large door so weakened, Tashaan and a few of the stronger Guardians were able to break it open the rest of the way after a few bashes with their weapons and shoulders. They were immediately greeted with a scene more along the lines of what they had been warily expecting.

            While there were far fewer bodies, all of them wore Templar armor, dented and bloodstained. Scorch marks and pillars of ice were scattered throughout the room and the hallways beyond; the marks of a battle that had involved mages. Though whether it had been between mage and Templar, or mage, Templar and the abomination and corpses they had fought above, Fiona was uncertain. Her only hope that some of the mages had survived was that the bar across the iron door, accompanied by the state of the tunnels behind them, hinted that someone had managed to trap the abomination and corpses in the first half of the tunnels. Hopefully whoever had done so was still breathing. If it was only Templars still alive, if nothing else she could make sure they paid for their crimes.

            They continued forward until they reached a large dining room. It appeared this room had been attacked when the Templars were eating as there was food splattered all over the broken tables, chairs, food platters and other wreckage as well as blood, bodies and more scorch marks and ice shards. Finding no evidence of survivors there, they kept going, passing various smaller miscellaneous rooms, some of which were in the same state as the dining room while others were bolted closed or left largely intact. From what they could tell, the rooms that were most destroyed were the ones that had held Templars often, if the continual appearance of dented armor and Templar garb was anything to go by. Fiona would’ve found some satisfaction in that if not for the worry that gnawed at her due to them finding no evidence of surviving mages. She hoped it meant they had found refuge deeper in the tunnels, but feared it meant something else.

            The next room they found was a library. Of medium size, it was in a similar state as the dining room. Some bookshelves and tables had been smashed to splinters while the rest had been simply knocked over and punctured by rotting vines or ice shards. Books with their pages falling out, some rotting and others starting to mold, were scattered throughout. Some of the books had been burned, shredded or frozen. There was blood spattered over most of it, but no armor, making them wonder if those attacked here had been able to flee—whether that was a blessing or a curse depended on who had fled and if they survived or not. There was also the unfortunate chance they had simply been eaten by the possessed corpses. Finding again no solid evidence of survivors they continued on.

            After going down numerous more hallways and passing more miscellaneous rooms, they came to a large room that had likely been used as a laboratory. It had also suffered the worst amount of damage. All of the massive bookshelves and long tables lay toppled and smashed, the tomes and scrolls they had once held scattered across the floor, many of which were illegible due to being torn, burned or partially frozen. Broken glass, partially shattered flasks and ceramic bowls, along with more armor pieces and rags, littered the ground as well. Everything was spattered in blood and whatever the contents were that leaked from some of the broken alchemic equipment, making the stench of the place sharply chemical. There were no bodies here, either, again making them wonder if it was due to there being survivors or if they had ended up as food for the possessed corpses.

            It was in this room they found the rods. They sat on the ruins of a table in the far back of the room behind a couple of broken bookshelves. Thin and long, pristine and intact while everything around them was ruined and destroyed, they seemed to mock them. Just as when they had found the symbol at each of the attack sights, the mages shuddered and refused to touch them, many looking away. Jester quickly gathered them up—giving his own shudder as he looked at the one thing besides death that could truly and permanently separate him from his mage—and shoved them into a sack, tying it closed as tightly as he could before shoving it in his pack. While the others relaxed slightly, glad not to have to look at them, Fiona and Tashaan stayed tense.

Leliana had gotten reports from some of her senior agents of rods missing from the vault underneath the Grand Cathedral a few months before the first attack. Only the Divine, Empress Celine and Fiona had been told, with the understanding that no one else was to know unless it was confirmed that the missing rods and the attacks were related, lest they cause a panic. Because of this, she was only partially surprised to see them there—though their presence, and the quantity, made her anxious. Most of the rods—along with the knowledge of how to create them—had been destroyed after the Tranquil cult had been eliminated centuries ago. Those not destroyed had been kept as a lesson of how far one will go to destroy what they do not understand when they allow themselves to be ruled by ignorance and fear—as well as proof of how much mages needed Guardians to protect them. That the Templars had managed to get their hands on not just one but four rods was disturbing—and was more proof of how vulnerable mages were. Fiona knew someone had to have helped them—but who? The vault in the Grand Cathedral could only be opened by the Divine and her left and right hands. How they opened it was known only to them. There was no one else who could’ve gotten them the rods. But that was a riddle for another day, after they had freed the mages being held here.

            They continued to pick through the debris, checking that there were no more rods buried beneath the wreckage. After what these Templars had done, they feared even one rod being left behind. Thankfully, they found none—at least, none that worked. Instead they found gnarled, twisted versions accompanied by documents. Most of the documents were burned or torn or frozen like the tomes and scrolls, but some were legible. And what they said made bile rise in Fiona’s throat.

Some were diagrams of human anatomy; others diagrams of the rods, all with labeled parts and side notes. Some spoke of the attempt to recreate the “rods of old” and the frustration that none of the replicas, even those which bore close resemblance to the originals, worked properly. There were detailed reports of temporary tranquility resulting in “insanity” followed by death, along with instances where emotions and Fade connection were actually heightened to the point where the mages could not separate reality, or even themselves, from the Fade. Fiona wondered idly if one of these cases had been what led to the birth of the abomination they had fought. Other documents held detailed records of the many “tests” they did to see if the rods worked—rape, beatings, starvation, torture—and the “failures” they had all resulted in. There were a few reports of “successes”, all apparently done with the four original rods, all followed by the frustration at the inability to duplicate them.

            All of it confirmed a terrible suspicion—a fear, rather—that the Divine had shared with the Empress and the Grand Enchanter: that these Templars were following in the footsteps of the Tranquil cult, and were attempting to follow through with its original purpose: a mage-free world. Fiona shuddered at the thought, as did Tashaan. Like with the reports of the missing rods, they had been sworn to secrecy about this so as not to cause panic across the South. They were grateful they had been stopped—they only wished the price had not been so high. Another suspicion was confirmed, one brought up by Leliana due to some odd reports from the Free Marches, when Rose recognized the signature on the bottom of one of the records: **Ser Otto Alrik of Kirkwall.** A Night Captain, sworn to follow the Chantry and its laws—and who apparently felt those laws did not apply to him. The discovery caused ripples of anger to spread through the group—as well as fear. There were a few who had family or friends in the Kirkwall Circle.

            Yet none of this was as chilling, or was the cause of as much anger, as the leather-bound folder Trill found. It was partially charred and half-buried in rubble, only some of it still legible. What was legible were entries that spoke of the Templars’ delight at managing to obtain a Spirit Healer, and documented each time they had “played” with him over the past year. Each entry was accompanied by how much the Healer had “progressed”—toward what it never said. The folder never once mentioned the Healer’s name—instead referring to him in every entry as “Anders”—but Fiona would’ve known who the mage was even if he hadn’t been the only Healer taken. “Anders”, a term used for those from the Anderfels, was in Alhmanic’s case a nickname Talon had given him since they were first bound, teasing him fondly about his origins. Fiona remembered learning this when she talked to them a month after they were first bound during Alhmanic’s first Bonding Ceremony as one of the Summoners. Talon joked about it while Alhmanic rolled his eyes, an exasperated smile on his face. Thinking about Talon’s death, reading what they had done whenever they “played” with Alhmanic, she wondered if she would ever see him smile again. The thought saddened her greatly.

            When nothing else was found, Jester put the “failed” rods in his pack along with the documents and the folder to keep as evidence. Then they turned to leave the room and continue their search for the mages and any other survivors—only to freeze at the sudden appearance of a figure in the doorway. In the light of their magelights, they could make out the features of middle-aged man with dark brown hair and beard, brown mage robes—and the sunburst symbol on his forehead.

 

“Hello,” he said, his voice as dead and expressionless as his face, “you must be here for the mages. If you are in need of any help, I can offer my assistance.”

No one answered right away, paralyzed as they were by the symbol on his forehead. Such a seemingly harmless thing, almost beautiful in its coloration, it was hard to believe it was a mark of death. None of them had ever seen a Tranquil mage before; had until now never even seen a rod save for at the annual celebration of Summerday, when all mages, Guardians and Escorts—the youths wearing white robes as custom dictated—would travel to the Grand Cathedral. The Grand Cleric would teach the youngsters the responsibilities of adulthood and then the Divine would take out one rod from the Cathedral vault and all in attendance would see it and be told the story of the cult’s rise and destruction, reminding them of what could’ve been if the cult had succeeded. Understanding why Tranquility was so feared was so ingrained in all their cultures that they had all learned about Tranquility. All of them had read about it in history books and been told stories as warnings—but to see a real Tranquil—to see the real-life result of what those rods could do standing before them, breathing but not truly alive—shook them all, mage and Guardian alike to their very cores.

It was the Guardians’ instincts that brought them out of their shock. Feeling their mages’ distress they quickly began fussing, drawing their mages close and sending waves of comfort and courage through their bonds, helping the mages to collect themselves. Fiona gave Tashaan a grateful smile that melted away when the Tranquil’s words finally registered. Turning to him sharply, she said “How do know why we are here?” Had he been expecting them? How could he have known they were coming?

“The Templars had assumed someone would eventually be sent after the mages they had taken including myself, and have been preparing for your arrival since they day they were given these tunnels. Their preparations were halted approximately one-and-a-half days ago when one of their attempts to recreate a rod of Tranquility failed.”

“How did it fail?” Fiona asked, trying not to shudder at the lifelessness in his voice.

“One of the mages they attempted to make Tranquil with one of their rods gained a sudden heightened sensitivity to the Fade instead of being cut off from it as they had hoped,” he answered. “She quickly lost the ability to distinguish the difference between the Fade and reality as well as her sense of self. This had occurred a few times before, but never so quickly or such an extreme. The Templars decided to kill her since there they had no way to reverse the effect and she was deemed useless to them as a result. However she became possessed by a demon before they could kill her and went on a rampage, killing Templars and destroying everything in her path. The Templars managed to lure her into the first half of the tunnels and barricade the door.”

“So she didn’t give into a demon of her own free will—it was able to take her by force because of her weakened state?” Fiona asked, unable to help the hope in her voice.

The Tranquil tilted his head to the side, seeming to consider her words. “I am not sure how one would define her actions as being of her own free will—the Templars do not believe us Tranquil to possess free will of our own. She had been driven to insanity as defined by most cultures in Thedas, so it is highly possible that she did those things not of her own volition.”

Fiona nodded, feeling strangely relieved. While she was still sad and angered that an abomination had come about at all, it was somewhat comforting to know that it was more likely due to a Templar’s mistake instead of a mage’s conscious decision to give into temptation.

“Did anyone besides you survive?” she asked.

“The other Tranquil survived—they and I did not appear to appeal to the abomination. The Templars who did not die fighting the abomination and barricading it in the first half of the tunnels fled to a room near the cells and bolted the door. They had been heavily wounded and needed somewhere to recuperate. As for the mages, only the Healer still lives.”

“Where is he being held?” Fiona asked both relieved to hear he was alive and worried as her thoughts flashed back to the folder. She was also angry that some of the Templars still lived. While they would be able to make sure those alive would face judgment, she thought it unfair that murderers and rapists had lived while all but one innocent mage lay dead.

“He is in the last cell in the dungeons,” the mage answered. “I can take you to him if you would like.”

“Yes, please take us to him—but first,” Fiona said, just as the mage started to turn away, “I would like to know your name.”

“My name is Karl Thekla,” Karl answered.

It was all Fiona could do not to betray her emotions as her heart dropped. Karl Thekla: one of the leading scholars in magical lore—and Alhmanic’s lover of four years. Maker, could this day get any worse?

She was about to find out. “Alright Karl,” she said, resigned, heart heavy. “Please take us to the Healer. And on our way there, I want you tell us everything that happened here.”

 

 

 

***

           

_The walls remember_ —a saying that referred to a mage’s ability to recreate a scene by dreaming about it in the fade with the help of their Guardian. The stronger the mage’s strength and connection to the Fade, and the thinness of the veil, the more they could hear, see, feel, and the farther back they could go. Like with many such types of magic, Spirit Healers were especially adept at this, having the advantage of the aid of spirits to heighten their sensitivity and help them travel deeper into the Fade safely. Fiona, though not a true Healer, could go fairly deep into the Fade when doing this and gather a good amount of information. When they had first entered the Fortress and seen what awaited them, she had briefly considered doing so to uncover as much of the story behind all the slaughter as she could. With how thin the veil was here, she figured she could go back as far as a couple days with Tashaan’s help. If she took some Lyrium she could go even farther. As they traveled farther inside, however, she decided against it, unwilling to subject herself to whatever horrors those people had suffered—and after fighting not only an abomination and possessed corpses but a horde of demons, she was glad to have made the decision.

Now, she found herself not only glad, but relieved. The story Karl told made her blood run cold: The Templars had arrived at the Fortress a good while before their first attack, garnering the residents’ trust and claiming they were there to conduct research on how to prevent the possible future creation of Tranquility rods for the Divine so as to prevent the birth of another cult. They even managed to forge the Divine’s signature so the papers they showed appeared legitimate. The people there welcomed them and supported their apparent cause to the point where when the Templers asked for the second part of the lower tunnels to be given to them so they could conduct their research without interruption, the Mayor handed them over without hesitation.

The Templars had then snuck the mages into the tunnels through secret passages so as not to raise suspicion and imprisoned the unbound mages in the cells. The bound ones they took were made Tranquil the moment their Guardians were killed and they were away from anyone who may offer them aid. They were then set to researching and attempting to create more rods. As the documents described, all were failures. Karl believed this was due to the fact that despite how much the Templars had recovered on the creation of the rods, most of the key information had been lost when the cult had been destroyed centuries ago. The Templars would not hear it, commanding them to keep trying.

It had all fallen apart, of course, when the abomination was born. The Templars had killed every unbound mage not all already dead, hitting them with waves of Smite before cutting them down so there wasn’t the smallest chance they could cast or become possessed themselves—for not only had the one demon come through and possessed the young mage girl, but others had followed. Her heightened connection had made it so she could cause a tear in the Veil without blood magic, allowing a multitude of demons to pour out. The Templars had been able to kill most of them and close the tear using Purge and other similar abilities, but not before the demons had killed nearly all of them and caused a considerable amount of damage. A number of them had escaped into the first half of the tunnels before they could barricade the door and slaughtered everyone there. They then possessed most of the corpses, eating what was left before making their way to the upper part of the Fortress when they could not get back through the door. Karl said it was so quiet down below after the fight had ended and the Templars fled that he and the other Tranquil could hear the residents above doing all they could to block the abomination and corpses from reaching them. It was to no avail, for the Tranquil who were elves could also hear demons above, likely ones that had come through another tear that had appeared at the same time as the one in the tunnels.

It had been hours before the sounds of screaming and slaughter had ended. He and the other Tranquil had briefly considered trying to help them as the residents cried out for aid, but decided against it—they would only die as well, therefore making their assistance pointless. So instead, they simply waited for the people the Templars were convinced would come to arrive. Then Fiona and her group showed up. The rest, they knew.

Disheartened and shaken by all they had learned, the group walked in increasingly heavy silence after Karl ended his story. Fiona found herself wondering why they had only faced corpses after opening the tunnels even though Karl claimed there demons throughout the fortress. The idea that there could still be more corpses as well as demons wandering the ancient halls made her uneasy and more anxious for them to leave soon, lest they face another battle. Her thoughts and the silence were broken when Fiona stopped by an iron door just before the stairs leading to the cells.

She could hear breathing, heavy and labored, but quiet and controlled as though they were afraid of being heard. By the expressions of the other elves and those bound to them, they could hear it as well. Just as the Guardians were drawing their weapons and moving in front of the mages (Karl being put in the back, the Guardians considering him to have the least defense since he had no magic), Trill said, “I smell Lyrium.” Looking at their mages, the Guardians saw she had voiced what the other mages were thinking: they had found where the remaining Templars were holed up. Convinced now that there would be a fight the moment they opened the door, Tashaan waited until shields were cast before kicking the door open.

It hit the wall with a resounding clang, revealing a group of five Templars huddled together in what appeared to be a storage room for food. They were all covered in blood and fluids (likely gotten from fighting the demons). Their armor was dented and one of them appeared to have a broken arm by the way it hung from his body at an unnatural angle. When the door opened, they moved as though to attack, but before they could reach their weapons, Fiona used a mind blast on them. Fueled by Tashaan’s strength and their combined anger, it knocked them all into the back wall with enough force to render them unconscious. The Guardians moved quickly, divesting the Templars of their weapons and tying their hands and feet together with rope, wire and whatever else they could get their hands on for the job. Fiona shuddered and grimaced as she noticed the sunburst symbol carved into each of their breastplates. Her grimace became a scowl when she recognized one of the Templars as Ser Otto Alrik himself, and another as Ser Karras, another man who’d been mentioned by Leliana. Seeing them both get trussed up like prize cows gave her a grim satisfaction.

Once the Templars were tied up to the Guardians’ satisfaction, a mage named Trevor, who specialized in force magic, and his Guardian opted to stay there and guard them. The others agreed and the rest of the group continued following Karl. They were confident that if any of the Templars woke up, Trevor could easily subdue them with another mind blast. Having found and subdued the Templars still alive so they could be brought back to face judgement, the group felt more invigorated as they entered the dungeons.

As they neared Alhmanic’s cell, however, the mages began to feel strange: tired, lightheaded, dizzy. Their Guardians, feeling this through their bonds, did their best to soothe them, but with little effect. The gruesome scenes that greeted them in each of the cells as Karl led them through the dungeons didn’t help matters. The farther they went, the worse the feeling became until many were swaying or clutching their heads or stomachs, and a few were moaning that they were going to be sick.

At one point, the mages became too weak to keep their magelights going, leading to one of the Guardians pulling a torch off the wall and lighting it with a match before handing it to Karl. At this point, the Guardians practically ordered them to stop and rest if not to completely turn around, but the mages dug in their heels and refused to defer to them in this. While they couldn’t save the others, they could make sure one mage made it out of there alive—and they were not about to be stopped by the threat of vomiting. Fiona was especially adamant, for she had felt like this once before, and had a suspicion that whatever was making them suddenly sick had nothing to do with an onset of germs but with what they would find in that cell. Her reasoning was that while all the mages in the group were feeling this way, Karl appeared completely unaffected.

Fiona’s theory about the sudden sickness was proven correct when they entered the cell. The rusty iron door was closed, but unlocked and partially hung off its hinges. The other Guardians deferring to him as they would when entering a fight, Tashaan pushed the door open only to have it fall flat on the ground with a clang, revealing the room beyond. And what they saw illuminated in the torchlight made even Fiona finally give in to the urge to vomit.

Like the other cells, the walls were spattered in blood and covered in filth. A pile of rags, once beautiful mage robes, lay in a heap in a far corner. Human waste and vomit spotted the filthy floor, some of it dry and deteriorating, some of it fresh and reeking. What was not like the other cells was the addition of a long iron table set against one wall. Shackles and chains hung off each corner. Rope, a coiled whip, what appeared to be a metal glove with claws, and other frightening-looking objects, all covered in blood, were scattered across its stained surface.

And then there was the magebane. A sickening green color, the stuff was strung across the ceiling and decorated the walls, and was hanging off every item and surface in that cell. It seemed to almost pulsate as it drained the mages’ energy and mama making them feel weak and feverish.

But what had them cringing away in fear after they were sick, some covering their mouths with their hands as they let out gasps or sobs, wasn’t the magebane—it was the state of the mage in the cell. Naked, he sat slumped against the wall opposite the cell door with his face turned away, part of his back facing them, in a pool of his own blood, vomit and waste. What parts of him were visible and not caked in filth and grime told a story of torture that was nearly demonic.

His pale skin was covered in marks and bruises. Some were lash marks—thin and long, they crisscrossed over each other and ran down his arms, legs and ribs. Others were short and reminiscent of teeth and nail marks. There were a few places that looked as though pieces of flesh had been…carved out, exposing the muscle beneath, most of which was as covered in filth like the rest of his body. The words _whore,_ _slut_ and _abomination_ had been carved and burned into his back and the sides of his arms and thighs. Many of the marks and cuts seemed to have scarred. The rest appeared newer and infected, leaking blood and other fluids in equal measure. What they could see of his hair was matted and covered in grime and blood like the rest of him. One leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. And like the cell he sat in, he was covered in magebane.

It was wrapped around his wrists, ankles, neck and torso, and had even been rubbed into several of the larger wounds on his back. Karl had said he was still alive. Looking at him, at the way he sat slumped like a forgotten doll, as still and lifeless as one, if not for the fact that Fiona could just barely hear him breathing, even with her elven hearing, she would’ve thought him dead. As it was, a part of her wished he was. With everything that had happened here over the last year, after all he and the others had suffered, to then be reduced to this…thing…before them and still be alive—surely it was a fate worse than death.

A wave of anger, unrestrained and frightening in its lethal ferocity shot through their bonds from the Guardians and hit each of the mages like a wall of ice before it was hastily pulled back and replaced by deep remorse, leaving them feeling dazed. The mages were shocked not only at the intensity of their anger, but at the fact that it was directed at the mage before them who the Guardians were glaring at with a terrible hatred. Except it wasn’t directed at the mage himself, they realized—it was directed at the marks that covered him, at the devices that had been used upon him, and at the magebane that was not only hurting their own mages but covered the one in the cell. Seeing this, the mages immediately understood their Guardians’ reactions and assured them there was no reason for them to apologize for their anger.

All mages knew that while Guardians were bound to a single mage for life—unable to care for any other or be so intimate in _any_ way with another person, mage or not, due to imprinting on their mage—they were still generally protective of mages as a whole. Whenever a Spirit Healer was present, this general protectiveness became a soul-deep instinct in every Guardian that told them they now had two mages to protect at all costs; to care for and comfort, though they could not do it through a bond nor, therefore, as intimately unless their mage was the Healer. This did not at all, however, diminish their feelings or instincts towards their own mages who always came first even if the Healer was close to death. It was this instinct that had brought out such anger in them.

Unable to go near him because of the magebane, the mages hung back and let the Guardians take care of getting him out of the cell. Magebane did not affect Guardians like it did mages due to another quirk in the bound. Instead of feeling it like they would if their mage was actually sick or hurt, Guardians only felt their mages’ distress and discomfort that stemmed from the poison’s effects. This also meant that mages were not hit double by the effects as they were with senses or emotions. No one was certain why this was so, but they did not complain—having only mages be affected was a key advantage in any situation that involved magebane and a mage in danger.

There were certainly no complaints now as Tashaan, once again taking the lead but this time because of the gentler side of his nature, walked into the cell and knelt beside the mage. Slowly and with the utmost gentleness, he put a finger under the mage’s chin and lifted his face to his. Through their bond, Fiona got a sense from Tashaan that Alhmanic’s eyes were open, though unfocused—he was awake, _aware_. She shuddered. She couldn’t imagine the pain he was in. Though, perhaps his unfocused expression meant he had retreated inside himself to escape the pain. That happened sometimes. She remembered Wynne telling her once how people in extreme, traumatic circumstances could sometimes separate their consciousness from their body. It was easier for mages who could retreat to the part of themselves that connected to the Fade. It was also very dangerous—if they spent too long there, there was a chance their bodies could die. The fact that he was still breathing made her hopeful that if Alhmanic had done this, it hadn’t been for too long.

While Tashaan did this, Fiona, the other elves and their bound partners turned to the rest and confirmed he was alive as Karl had said. Having been unable to hear his faint breathing, the others sighed in relief before breaking into cheers and joyful exclamations. They hadn’t been able to save the other mages, but they had saved the Healer. With all they had gone through and all that had happened before they reached the Fortress, it was a greater victory than they could’ve hoped for at this point.

However, the celebration was short-lived, for while the Healer lived now, he was in too bad a condition for any of the mages there to help him, especially with the magebane interfering with their magic and health. He needed a Spirit Healer. He needed Wynne.

As gently as he could, Tashaan carefully unwrapped the magebane from around his and threw it off to the side with an angry grunt. As much as it pained him, there was nothing any of them could do about the magebane rubbed into his wounds at the time being. So, ignoring it he took out the extra cloak he always carried in case Fiona got cold, and wrapped it around the mage’s waist as best he could since it was made for a female elf and therefore much too small to cover all of him. Once he was satisfied it would not slip off him, he gently picked Alhmanic up, cradling him against his chest, and carried him out of the cell. Fiona had been worried Alhmanic might react badly to the contact especially with his broken leg—but his head simply lulled to the side, his body hanging limply in Tashaan’s grasp. She was torn between being relieved he was cooperating so they could get him out and being concerned by his lack of reaction and what it could mean.

After checking their maps to see where the nearest secret entrance was, several mages and their Guardians went back to the storage room to collect the Templars while the rest of the group waited outside the cell. When they returned, each unconscious Templar slung over the shoulder of a Guardian like a fresh kill, they were accompanied by the other Tranquil who followed behind them in silence. Though unnerving, they decided to take the Tranquil with them. Partly as evidence, but mostly because despite the fact they were not truly alive—not in the ways that mattered—they could not bring themselves to leave them there. They had once been vibrant mages who had served well, with Guardians who cherished them. It was not their fault that had all been cruelly ripped away from them. And who knew, perhaps they could be healed. There were theories that Tranquility, with the help of a powerful spirit, could be reversed. They agreed that the Tranquil deserved a chance at being healed—and, at the very least, a quick death if healing could not be done.

So the now much larger group finally made its way out of the Fortress and to the camp where Wynne was waiting for them.

And for the first time in a year, their hearts were light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to any and everyone who read this--I hope you are enjoying it!
> 
> I apologize again for the dark start--like I said, there will be light soon, I WILL make it up to you guys!


	3. Wynne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona and the others meet up with Wynne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! Sorry it took so long for me to update this--midterms hit followed closely by finals so the editing took FOREVER!--I hope the fact that there is some fluff in this chapter and you get to see some things from Anders' POV make up for the wait!!
> 
> I want to thank you guys for leaving all the wounderful comments and kudos they mean SO MUCH and it's really encouraging to know you guys are enjoying the story!! XD 
> 
> Another shoutout out to my bro and beta!!
> 
> Comments and kudos are 100% welcome!! Thank you again for reading!! *HUGS*
> 
> Enjoy!! :D

_“A Healer’s first instinct is to heal; to mend and to soothe; to create life where there is but death and decay—even at the expense of their own life. And so I, Divine Justinia I, hereby decree that all Healers are henceforth excluded from being conscripted for any battle of any kind, as well as from the Grey Warden Right of Subscription, and are furthermore banned from attempting to become thus. Never again shall one of the Maker’s most cherished and beloved children fall in battle even in the effort to defeat the Darkspawn.”_

_—_ Official decree given by Divine Justinia I, 1:24 Divine.

 

Wynne couldn’t remember the last time she had felt like this when she wasn’t trying to heal an especially critical patient.

Her tent had been set in the middle of the camp near the commander’s tent to ensure her safety should they come under attack. It was larger than many of the other tents, though not overly so and had a few holes cut out to act as windows. At the moment, each window was covered by a flap of fabric that could be tied up with a piece of rope. Inside, the tent smelled like elfroot and other healing herbs along with burning wood and ash. Shelves covered in herbs, potion ingredients, small potion bottles, and books lined one of the walls. A low cot sat pushed up against the far back wall covered partly in papers. The entire scene was washed in bright firelight from the small fire pit that had been dug out in the center of the tent and piled with logs that now crackled with fire. Like with all such places, days in the Western Approach were hot and dry while the nights were bitterly cold. It would have felt comforting, cheery even—if not for the anxiety and frustration that was a tight knot in her stomach, warring with the feelings of love and comfort her Guardian, Alder, was attempting to send her.

She was pacing back and forth in front of the cot where Alder sat. He had long ago given up trying to get her to sit and relax—she only got restless. He now watched her pace with a frown. She could tell he was becoming anxious himself at having been unable to calm her or get her to eat all day. She felt a little guilty for distressing him, but was too anxious to do more than cast him an apologetic look before continuing her pacing. Usually, doing something relaxing like reading or discussing magical theory with one of the enchanters—or spending time with the younger students outside of class and helping them with their casting when she’d spent a lot of time inside already—was enough to take her mind off things when she was feeling like this. And if all else failed Alder holding and reading to her typically worked, even when she was restless. There was nothing like being surrounded by her Guardian, feeling his presence—mind, body and soul—when she was feeling especially worried or angry or was just plain sick or tired.

But today, not even that could calm her. Today her thoughts were too consumed with the fact that Fiona and the others had not yet returned, and all the things that could have gone wrong when they entered the fortress. Not to mention her fear that they had gotten there too late—that Fiona and the others would return with nothing but lifeless bodies to burn. Or worse…no, she wouldn’t allow herself to consider it; the thought was too horrible. And with how worried she was, no matter how hungry she felt the idea of eating anything just seemed so…unsuitable. Especially with that little voice in the back of her mind repeatedly bringing up the possibility that the mages they’d gone to rescue would not be found dead but tranquil…

            “Wynne,” Alder said softly, his pleading tone pulling her—thankfully—out of her disturbing thoughts. “I know you are worried, but please at least _try_ to eat something—I can feel how hungry you are so don’t try to tell me you aren’t,” he added with a firm, scolding tone.

            Wynne scowled at him, not bothering to try and argue. Instead she simply said, “How can I eat, knowing that Fiona and the others—the mages they were sent to find—are in that Maker-forsaken fortress? We have no idea what could be happening in there, no way to help them if something went wrong.” Clenching and unclenching her hands in agitation, she muttered, “I should be with them, not holed up in a tent surrounded by idiots with swords!”  

“Wynne—” he began, taking a step toward her.

 “Don’t you ‘Wynne’ me!” she snapped, turning to him sharply. “You know full well I am the only available Healer right now! What if they were ambushed? What if they were too late? What if they are in need of a Healer’s aid? I am meant to help and to heal, and I cannot _do that_ from inside of this blasted camp!” she cried, her eyes stinging.

Alder rushed forward and pulled her into another embrace. She held onto him fiercely, both physically and through their bond like he was the only hold on a sheer cliff. She rarely cried, rarely even teared up, becoming fierce and determined instead and directing those feelings toward her current task. Crying did little but distract her and make her feel hopeless. But this last year had been an emotional strain on everyone, mages especially and she was finding it harder and harder to keep her composure and keep her emotions in check. And while she did not cry now, she did take deep breaths as Alder held her, doing her best to prevent the tears from actually falling as she tried to get herself back under control. The presence of her Guardian and the strength and love he was flooding their bound with helped to ground her. After a moment, she pulled back and gave Alder a small smile, letting him know through the bond that she was fine now.

Alder sighed and, rubbing his mage’s arms to soothe her, said, “I know you want to be there with them—you are a Healer; it is your nature to want to be in thick of danger, because it is there that those who are in the greatest need can most often be found. But being a Healer you are too valuable to risk!”

“My being a Healer does not make my life worth more than theirs!” Wynne stated coldly.

“I know that,” Alder said, putting enough bite in his voice to let her even without the bond that her words had offended. She sent him feelings of remorse which he answered with feelings of forgiveness before continuing, “But that does not change the fact that should you get hurt or…” he took a deep, shuddering breath, “ _die_ …it would have serious repercussions throughout Thedas, especially since Alhmanic is one of the mages who was taken.” 

She sighed. He was right of course. Not just about what her being harmed or killed would entail, but about the effect her nature was having on her. Like all Healers, she was practical, fair—and had an instinct to heal those in need, no matter the circumstance or cost, that went as soul-deep as a Guardian’s instinct to defend and protect. She knew that if not watched this instinct could easily lead to the death of many a Healer. Because of this, she was usually one of the greatest advocates for laws and any precautions taken in times of crisis to protect mages, and keep things from falling into chaos. She knew these laws were to prevent Healers—herself included—from throwing themselves in the path of death to save another; knew they existed because Healers were the only ones who could cast the spell that created the Guardians. She knew this—and so knew just how lucky she was that the current Divine had even allowed her to come at all. As well as how shocking her appeal to accompany Fiona and her party to the Western Approach was to everyone who had been present and later heard of her actions. She remembered poor Alder’s reaction to her behavior—eyes wide, mouth agape, he had watch, stunned, as in an act of desperation Wynne had _yelled_ at the Divine herself; at the very hand of the Maker. Though shocked, Divine Justinia had not reprimanded her. Instead she had allowed her to state her full argument and eventually win the right to go as far as the camp. Wynne had been grateful beyond words.

She was brought of her thoughts by excited voices outside as the commander barked orders to his troops. This was soon followed by one of the soldiers yelling “It’s the mages—the mages have arrived!” They shared a look, shock warring with hope mirrored on each other’s faces, before bursting into motion. 

Wynne grabbed her staff, allowing Alder to help her put on her cloak before strapping the staff to her back as he put his own cloak on and grabbed his bow. Then they were running through the camp, the soldiers parting for them as they raced to the front where a small crowd had gathered before a large group of people on horseback, their features partially illuminated in the harsh torch light.

Wynne sagged with relief when she stopped in front of them and saw that everyone who had entered the fortress had made it out alive and, from what she could see, largely unscathed. She went to greet them—then stopped, her eyes widening in shock and horror as she noticed the brand upon the forehead of one of the mages who were dismounting. She did not recognize him as one who had gone in with Fiona. On one hand a small relief to her—but one the other that could only mean he had been one of the mages who had been taken a year ago. And that meant her fears had been true; they had gotten there too late.

Alder echoed her feelings, his eyes flashing with rage as he took in the sight of the brand, a ragged snarl ripping its way out of his throat. As they scanned the group, her expression grew more somber and Alder’s angrier with each Tranquil they noted. Her eyes flashed in anger, Alder snarling savagely, his hands curling into fists, when they spotted the five Templars. Each was slung over the back of a horse behind a Guardian. What they could see of their hands and feet were bound tightly with rope. Her expression turned grim when her gaze rested upon the man Tashaan held tightly in his arms. Alder followed her gaze, and the two shuddered as they caught the scent of blood and death, the smells intensified by the bond. Recognizing him as Alhmanic, she prayed that the fact Tashaan was carrying him meant he lived. Wynne turned to Fiona, expression grim. “I see you found the mages.”

 “We did,” Fiona confirmed wearily.

“Are they the only ones to survive?” Wynne motioned to the Tranquil and Alhmanic.

Fiona nodded her expression just as grim. She hesitated. Then: “He was…badly hurt during his captivity—”

“I will do what I can,” Wynne assured her briskly. “And what of the Tranquil—are they in any need of healing?

“They do not appear to have sustained any injuries—beyond the branding, that is,” Fiona replied. Hearing the bitter, grief-struck tone as she spoke the last few words, Wynne didn’t doubt it took quite a bit of the Grand Enchanter’s will, and that of her Guardian to keep her composure so she did not start raging about the atrocities that had occurred in the fortress.

Pretending she couldn’t tell how thin Fiona’s self-control was, Wynne gave a sharp nod, thinking she would check each of the Tranquil after she finished healing Alhmanic, just to be certain.

“Then you and Tashaan come with me.” Turning to the commander she said, “Please find tents for the Grand Enchanter and the others, and get them and their horses some food and water if you will.”

“And the Templars?” the commander asked.

Wynne eyed them with contempt then glanced at Alder. He was breathing harshly beside her, teeth clenched, as he fought to keep his temper leashed so he didn’t smother her with it. The fact that Alhmanic was a Healer—and a Guardianless one at that—was not helping as his instincts screamed at him to defend and protect him as though he were his own mage. And to slaughter those who dare hurt him.

Sending him feelings of calmness and love she turned back to the commander and said, “Tie them up with the horses, and if they wake give them enough food and water so they will last the trip to Velun—otherwise, I don’t care what you do with them.” 

The commander nodded before turning to his men and barking orders to get food and tents ready for the new arrivals while the group was shown where to tie their horses. As they carried out their orders—albeit a bit hesitantly when it came to the Tranquil, finding their presence unsettling—Wynne motioned to Fiona and Tashaan to follow before heading off to her own tent with Alder close behind. She could feel his rage like a shard of ice through their bond as he muttered angrily under his breath, the words “Templars” and “Maker” the only things she could make out.

As Wynne led them through the camp, everyone gave her a small, respectful bow as she passed, a few of them muttering “Healer” reverently in greeting. When they all turned to greet Fiona and Tashaan, they stopped and stared in shock at the mage he carried. Tashaan seemed to grow tired of this, scowling at everyone they passed as he did his best to draw the blanket further around the mage without covering his face. Wynne simply nodded to each of them and continued on, ignoring their shocked expressions and focusing instead on asking Fiona to tell her everything that happened in the fortress. Fiona nodded before giving her a quick summery of events and Alhmanic’s injuries along with what Karl had told them.

Wynne’s mouth pressed into a hard, thin line as Fiona told her Karl’s story and the origins of the abomination and corpses. She shuddered when Fiona described the folder they found and what it contained then sucked in a sharp breath when she told her about the magebane and Alhmanic’s cell. Behind them Alder snarled, enraged at the Templars’ actions, the sound echoed by Tashaan. Wynne frowned deeply at Fiona’s concern that his spirit may have fled his body at some point. When she had told her all she knew Wynne thanked her, looking thoughtful and concerned as they neared her tent.

The moment they entered the tent Wynne headed straight for the cot, quickly moving everything on it to the floor and stripping off the blankets before draping a clean sheet over it. She motioned to Tashaan to lay Alhmanic upon it. Fiona helped Tashaan gently turn him so he was on his stomach before lying him down. As they did so, Alder threw another log on the fire and fetched a stool. Wynne browsed her shelves, muttering to herself as she gathered potions and ingredients along with bandages and cleaning supplies before returning to the cot.

Wynne sat on the stool and started arranging the supplies on the cot’s edge before turning to the other Healer. Cautious because of the magebane, she carefully pulled the blanket down to his ankles before pulling off the cloak wrapped around his waist, revealing his ruined body. She covered her mouth with one hand at the sight, the other hovering over him. She ached to heal the wounds, but even with how dirty he was there was so much damage visible a part of her feared even the slightest touch might break him. As a Healer, she had seen many terrible injuries, and these were undoubtedly some of the worst.

Both Guardians snarled angrily at the sight before quickly leashing their rage so as not distress their mages. Wynne’s expression hardened as her own rage grew. Tone and expression fierce, she whispered, “ _This_ is why I fought so hard to be here—I _knew_ they would need a Healer!” She then leashed her own anger and put all her focus into the mage before her (putting on her “Healer face” as Alder teasingly called it). She could not let her anger—or that of her Guardian—take over when doing a healing. A single moment of distraction could do more harm than good in any situation no matter how trivial, and this was certainly not trivial. Drawing on the comfort of her Guardian’s presence, she summoned her magic and cast a spell to examine the Healer’s body and see the full extent of the damage. The magebane made her feel lightheaded as she cast, but she was able to stay focused and ignore the feeling with her Guardian pouring his strength into her as she listed off the injuries in her head.

She quickly noted the things Fiona had told her about: the broken leg (a clean break—easily set and mended); the bruises (throat, wrists, ankles, back, thighs and hips); the tooth and nail marks (mostly on the thighs and lower back); the cuts and slashes; the whip marks (a few dozen at least); the places where the flesh had been carved out—and the words. Carved and burned into his flesh, they were long-since scarred; there was nothing she could do to remove them. Thankfully they were the only burns. There was moderate swelling on all of the fresh wounds. There were also an unfortunate number of scars, especially on his back and ribs. Her magic showed this was due not only to the year of torture, but because the magebane had entered his bloodstream. It was, and had been, interfering with his ability to heal naturally, making many of his wounds worse than they would have been otherwise, even with the Templars’ treatment of him being what it was. Wynne frowned. It would need to be purged from his body before she could heal him; even then it had done enough damage there was a high chance many of the larger and deeper wounds would scar despite her efforts. She felt her anger rise again but quickly pushed it away and continued.

A good number of the scars had been reopened multiple times mostly due to the whip marks crossing over them. There were mild to moderate infections in over half of the wounds with more severe infections in the wounds with magebane, all of which were whip marks. Though they were few, all were deep, the edges ragged; likely they had used a serrated tip. There was damage to the rectum and the internal walls—tearing and swelling; a moderate infection; bleeding and clotting but none past the inner walls, and much bruising. Intestines and organs appeared to be fine besides some mild bruising and swelling. Thankfully, no cauterization necessary, and once the magebane was removed from his system its effects would wear off, albeit gradually. Her magic also showed that Alhmanic had not contracted any kind of venereal disease.

Wynne was grateful; considering Fiona’s story, the state of his other wounds and the magebane in his blood, she knew it all could have much, much worse. There would be scars, but he would have the full use of his leg once he was healed and the complete lack of disease and lack of internal damage past his torn rectum and the bit of bruising beyond meant there should be no unseen problems arising in the future. Not physically away, but right now the physical damage was the priority. The mental and emotional damage would have to be taken care of after he was bound to a new Guardian, lest they risk losing him despite her healing him.

Mages and Guardians both felt the same level of crippling grief when their bound partner died. But due to a quirk in the bond, mages did not imprint on their Guardians in the quite the same way as their Guardians imprinted on them. This not only allowed them to be intimate with others as well as their Guardians, but was why they could be bound to another where Guardians could not. However, they were still frighteningly vulnerable in other ways, namely that they no longer had anyone to protect them from demons. With all that Alhmanic had faced, Wynne was surprised and grateful he had gone this long without becoming consumed by grief or falling prey to a demon. That didn’t mean it couldn’t still happen, however; there would always be a risk until the moment he was bound again.   

She frowned, deeply concerned when her magic confirmed that his spirit had in fact fled his body some time during his torture. This worried her even more than the magebane—even more than the chance of him falling to temptation. While she would be able to heal him, hard as it may be, and being bound again would eradicate the chance of possession, the fact that his spirit had fled to the Fade brought up an entirely new set of problems. Not least of which was the fact that since there was no way for her to tell how long he had been gone, she had no way to know how long they had before his body died. The thought of him dying while she healed him—not because she had failed in the healing itself but because there was simply nothing there to keep the flesh alive—disturbed her greatly, and made her push back against her instinct to simply dive in and heal. She considered just getting him from the Fade before doing anything else, but the shock…

Still frowning, she sat back and looked at the other Healer thoughtfully as she considered her options. Her thoughts were interrupted by Fiona saying, “Wynne?” Uncertainty tinged her voice.

Without turning her gaze away from the mage on the cot, Wynne quickly told Fiona all her magic had shown her. The elf’s ears drooped slightly at the news, causing Tashaan to put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Despite the grimness of her expression, there was confidence in her voice when she said, “You can bring him back.”

“Yes,” Wynne assured her. “I simply wish I knew exactly how long he has been gone; the longer he spends in the Fade the harder it will be to convince him to return—especially since the reason he fled his body was to escape severe trauma. Though I do not believe it could have been too long ago since his body does not appear to have started dying yet.”

“Do you think it happened when that young mage girl summoned the demons in the fortress?” Tashaan rumbled. Fiona twisted around to look at him as though shocked by the question.  

“Possibly,” Wynne said thoughtfully. “But I can’t know for sure.”

“Shouldn’t we try to bring him back before healing him then?” Fiona asked, concerned. Tashaan shifted so she was pressed against his side, his arm around her shoulders.

Wynne thought for a moment. A healing could not be rushed—not if the Healer wanted to avoid making mistakes or missing things which was always a possibility no matter the strength or skill of the Healer. Because of that and the extent of the damage, even with her Guardian giving her every last drop of strength he could spare, the healing would still take some time. And that was not including the time it would take to first clean out and disinfect his wounds, as well as remove the magebane if she wanted to heal him at all. Again, she considered simply retrieving him from the Fade before all else—but again she disregarded that thought. The biggest reason being that he could feel no pain where he was. With how different the Fade was to the waking world, the very shock of returning to a physical body—and one that had suffered so much trauma, no less—could very well kill him where the Templars’ torture had not. So the best course of action, she reasoned, would be to get rid of the magebane and clean his wounds then retrieve him from the Fade before doing the actual healing. That would help alleviate the pain and hopefully some of the shock; as well as lessen the risk of him dying before she could reach him in the Fade.

Having decided that, she turned to the others and told them her plan, explaining her reasoning when Fiona brought up her concerns of how long that could take. While she felt it was their best option, she prayed that she was indeed making the right call and that Alhmanic would not die while they worked. She turned to Alder who nodded before getting up and leaving the tent. While he was gone, Wynne had Fiona and Tashaan unroll bandages while she started grinding some of the ingredients she had gathered into powder. By the time they were done, Alder returned with two full buckets of water that he set on the ground next to the cot, and a bar of soap. They quickly washed their hands in one bucket then Wynne gave then each a clean rag wetted with water from the other bucket and the group set to work.

 

As Wynne had predicted, cleaning his wounds took quite a while. There was a lot of dirt, grime and blood caked on his skin, and they had to be careful and thorough so as prevent further damage. There were many times where they carefully had to pick out small pebbles and the like, especially with the wounds where muscle tissue was visible. Wynne had considered filling one of the large basins they had with water and cleaning him off that way, but quickly disregarded the idea. His broken leg was the deciding factor. They didn’t have a basin big enough for it to be kept straight while they washed him so it could set, and she feared adding to the damage by trying to maneuver him into the basin before they could put a splint on it. So instead Wynne had cast another quick spell to check his pulse and other vitals, and then cleaned his back while Fiona worked in his sides and arms and Tashaan cleaned his legs. Alder took charge of mixing the water with powdered elfroot to help the swelling go down and stop the bleeding in the wounds that were still open. He was also in charge of taking the bucket and the rags away whenever the water got too dirty, returning shortly after with fresh rags and fresh water that he would mix more powdered elfroot into.

When the words— _slut_ on his thigh, _abomination_ across his shoulders, _whore_ on his lower back— were revealed, all ugly in their purpose, Wynne felt her and Alder’s anger spike before they pushed it away to focus on their task. They were in many ways crueler than any of the other wounds—crueler even than the magebane in his body. She could remove the magebane, and anything else that scarred would just be abstract marks on his skin that would fade with time. But the faded or not, the words would always serve as ugly reminders not only of who had tortured him for a year but of the humiliation he had suffered at their hands.

Wynne payed special attention to the wounds that had been reopened, as well as those that showed muscle tissue and which magebane had been rubbed into. Alder picked the solid pieces of magebane out then dropped them onto an old rag to be discarded later while Wynne did her best to clean off what was left. She also payed special attention to his rectum, making sure to be especially careful as she cleaned off the dried blood and semen that was caked around it and on the insides of his legs since the skin there was so bruised and thin. She was deeply concerned by how thin he was, his bones protruding in many places—they would need to make absolutely sure he ate something; though she knew from experience dealing with abused and starved patients that even if he had an appetite, keeping the food down could prove a challenge. They would just have to be patient. She was also enraged at the fact that the Templars had felt the need to not only torture and starve but sexually assault him multiple times, and found herself hoping that whatever punishment they were given in Velun, it would not be swift. Alder’s lips curled as he growled quietly in agreement.

As they worked, they could hear the sounds of the camp outside fade away as its occupants retired for the night. Soon the fires around the camp were extinguished, leaving only the moonlight to stream in through the tent’s windows, and the only sounds drifting in from outside were the occasional call of nocturnal animals. Some of the light fell across Alhmanic’s face, highlighting his unfocused eyes and making his pale skin look as though it was made of dim silverite. Wynne had reached out to close his eyes before they started cleaning his wounds, unsettled by the almost dead look in them—but changed her mind when Tashaan protested; he did not want him to be trapped in the dark if there was even the slightest chance he could see.

When they had finally finished cleaning all his wounds, Alder again replaced the dirty water with fresh water and the old rags with new ones before retrieving some embrium petals from one of the shelves. Wynne quickly ground them into powder before mixing them with some more ground elfroot. She poured the mixture into the water bucket then dipped some rags into it and handed them each one. They then started to go back over his wounds lightly, this time to disinfect and prevent the ones that were already infected from worsening. They were grateful it took much less time and only the one bucket of water and set of rags.

When Wynne felt they were as clean as they were going to get, she cast another quick spell to check his vital signs again and make absolutely sure there was nothing she missed. She was glad to see the bleeding had stopped and the swelling and infections had gone down, and told the others as such. Next they put a splint on his broken leg and wrapped it up tight with bandages so it would set and could be healed quickly after she returned from the Fade. Wynne also healed all the damage from the rapes—while her plan had been to do the full healing after retrieving him from the Fade, she felt it obscenely cruel to bring the other Healer back to a body that still bore the evidence of multiple assaults. Alder fed her strength and feelings of calmness so she could do it somewhat quickly and without mistakes; she sighed in relief when she was done. The wounds the magebane had been rubbed into were proving to be a problem as she had feared. They were better than they had been before, but not as good as the rest. She frowned at them, knowing they would scar. Alder gathered up the used rags and water bucket and took them outside. While he was gone, Wynne motioned to Tashaan to carefully pick the Healer up so she could place a clean sheet underneath him then stepped aside so Tashaan could lay him back down, this time on his side.

Alder returned soon after with a fresh bucket of water. He set it beside Wynne’s stool then grabbed two glass containers: one small and empty, the other larger and filled with what looked like a dark powder. Wynne took the items, nodding to Alder in thanks. She filled the smaller container with water then poured some of the powder into it before covering the top and shaking it, mixing the ingredients together. As she did so, she turned to Fiona and Tashaan and said, “This should absorb and neutralize the poison. I’ll check just before I retrieve him from the Fade to be sure but it’s always worked for me before.”

Fiona nodded to show she understood. Eyeing the mixture she asked, “What is that?”

“Burnt coconut shells,” Wynne answered.

“Coconuts?” Fiona asked. “I’ve seen those in some markets in the summer, though I’ve never had one before. They grow near the Northern Seas, don’t they?”

Wynne nodded. “Nutshells work as well, as do wood and sediments like peat or ignite, but I always felt coconut worked the best. When the shells are burnt then ground into powder and mixed with water, they act like a sponge soaking up any poison in the body from food poisoning to deathroot to magebane. Quite handy when dealing with poisons.”

Fiona nodded in agreement. When Wynne felt the powder and water were thoroughly mixed together, she carefully lifted Alhmanic’s head with one hand and gave him the mixture as she would when giving someone a health potion. He swallowed reflexively until it was empty. Wynne filled the container with some more water, covered and shook it again, then lifted his head and gave him the water to be sure he got the full dosage. Afterward, she gave him a health potion while Alder put way the powder and small container. Once that was done, she motioned to Tashaan to move him back onto his stomach and sat back with a weary sigh. 

She turned to the others. “Since I will be retrieving him before doing the healing, I will need you to help me make some poultices—oh, thank you, Alder,” she said, sitting back down as she had started to get up, and gratefully taking the ingredients he had fetched for her.

He handed Fiona and Tashaan the same ingredients and they all set to work making poultices. After they finished, she cast another quick spell to check his pulse and other vitals breathing a sigh of relief when she found everything to still be unchanged and that the powder was working just as it should. They then applied the poultices to Alhmanic’s wounds. Once done, Wynne checked him one last time, satisfied to see still nothing had changed then turned to Alder who fetched a small cushion and a clean blanket from a sack near one of the walls. Alder tucked the cushion under the younger Healer’s head and draped the blanket lightly over his body, careful not to dislodge any of the poultices. The group then set to work getting everything cleaned up and preparing for Wynne’s trip into the Fade.

 

“You two will need to stand guard in case anything tries to come through,” Wynne instructed Fiona and Tashaan as she finished drawing the last of the runes on the ground with a piece of chalk. Giving a satisfied nod after checking they were all correct, she stood up with a small groan. “These old bones of mine,” she murmured before giving Fiona and Tashaan a stern look. “It will take all of Alder’s strength and concentration to help me keep the bridge between the Fade and the waking world up while I am there, and traveling to the Fade this way will attract attention from the other side—from spirits both good and bad. So I need you to make sure nothing but Alhmanic and I come through!”

“Of course, Healer,” Fiona said, Tashaan nodding in agreement.  

Everything was in place. Wynne had drunk a bottle of Lyrium to increase her mana supply and her connection to the Fade. Alder had stoked the fire to keep it hot so Alhmanic would not be cold when they brought him back. Runes had been drawn on the ground in a circle around Wynne, which would help her with her journey. While it was easy to dream in the Fade about past events, traveling to the Fade in the present and keeping an open pathway back was another matter entirely—and for mages that weren’t Spirit Healers (or Dreamers, though there hadn’t been any of those for over two ages) it was nearly impossible without the assistance of at least three other mages and Guardians. Another reason Fiona thanked the Maker Wynne had been allowed to come with them at all.  

“How will you convince him to return?” she asked.

Wynne thought for a moment. “It will be tricky,” she admitted. “He had retreated this way in order to escape torture that in all honesty should have killed him, and it is likely that he did not believe anyone was coming for him. If he was still bound, his Guardian could have used the bond to go into the Fade after him—similar to the way Guardians can follow us into the Fade when we dream to ward off demons—and convince him that it was safe for him to return. Since that is not the case, and considering we are not particularly close, it is more than likely that he will see me as no more than a demon trying to possess him.”

“Then what will you do?” Fiona asked, pushing back her anxiety. Wynne was one of their strongest bound Healers; if anyone could do this, it was her. _Maker let me be right._

“I will need the aid of a spirit,” Wynne decided after a moment. “A spirit of truth should do the trick—after all, it is impossible to lie in the presence of one.” Turning to Alder she said, “Ready Al?”

“Ready, my sweet wind,” he said, causing Wynne to smile and roll her eyes.  

Still smiling, she closed she eyes and summoning her magic started to weave the spell that would open the way into the Fade. Alder closed his eyes as well, pouring all his strength into her as she did the ritual.

Fiona and Tashaan watched in fascinated awe—it wasn’t every day one got to see a Healer enter the Fade to retrieve a fellow mage. The hair on the backs of their necks stood on end as the magic started to build and Wynne started chanting. The air crackled and popped as the runes on the ground began to glow a bright, iridescent blue. As the air grew thick with the heavy smell of ozone and magic, Wynne’s eyes began to glow blue like the runes the color spilling over the edges of her lids. Soon her entire body was glowing faintly, the magic in her seeming to roll off her in waves. They felt more than heard the song when it reached them—it was sweet and alluring and grew steadily louder with each second Wynne spent casting and chanting. It was the same song mages heard when near Lyrium: the song of magic; the song of the Fade. Wynne suddenly raised her staff high above her head, holding it in both hands—screaming the last syllables of the spell as the song reached a sudden crescendo—then slammed it against the earth with a sound like thunder.

Immediately, Wynne fell to the ground with a gasp, unconscious while Alder stayed upright, still pouring all he had into his mage. The song suddenly dropped dramatically in volume to where it was just on the edge of hearing but still present, like a feeling they couldn’t quite shake. Fiona and Tashaan tensed, knowing that this, along with the faint glow that still outlined Wynne’s body and the runes, meant she had made her way into the Fade—and it was now up to them to make sure the only ones who came back through were her and Alhmanic.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Anders could not believe his luck.

His day had started out well enough: he had woken slowly as he usually did, safe in the arms of his Guardian, their minds still partially connected from their shared dreams. When mages slept, their bond allowed their Guardians to watch over their dreams in case of demons. Should one appear, they would then use the bond to join their mage in the Fade and fend the demon off. There were stories—mostly whispered by one unbound mage to another in quiet dorms at night—of times when demons had managed to best a Guardian and torment their mage (and of course, those without magic had no such defense). But his Guardian was strong and vigilant and so any demons who confronted him were met with a swift and painful end. (Not that they had much to tempt or torment him with anyway. Anders could count on his hand the number of times a demon had even remotely gotten to him after he had been bound, and each time his Guardian had easily fended it off).

Sunlight had filtered in through the window, accompanied by the sound of birds chirping and people going about their day. The mouth-watering smell of bacon and eggs was wafting into the room from the kitchen downstairs, as was the sound of Charlie’s whistling. Charlie was an elven chef who made dishes so mouth-watering all of Hightown had wanted to hire him—and so had let out a collective, unhappy sigh when he volunteered to be the chef of “the Great Healer Alhmanic and his esteemed Guardian!” as he had put it. Add in the fact that it was Anders’ name-day and it was looking to be quite a lovely day.

And it was—until Talon said they were going to go on a picnic. Now Anders had nothing against picnics. H much preferred them, in fact, over the fancy places they would often celebrate at where Anders could barely breathe with all the perfume in the air and he had to keep asking Talon what fork was he supposed to use and why did it matter whether or not he used the small versus the large spoon for this kind of soup instead of the other kind, it’s still soup isn’t it? Of course, since he was a Healer everyone acted like eating anywhere less pretentious was like eating in the slums (not that he would’ve minded—at least people there didn’t give him a scandalized look if he forgot to cover his mouth when he burped). His mother just adored those fancy places, however, so Anders tried his best not to complain and just get through it. And afterwards—knowing how uncomfortable those meals made him—Talon would take him to a small valley or a hill top or some other lovely place outside where they would have a quiet picnic and just relax and celebrate together, mage and Guardian.

Anders had thought that was how it would go this year, so he was delighted to hear they were apparently skipping the fancy dinner part altogether. At least, he would have been if it had been anywhere else but the Wounded Coast. The apparent home base for every mercenary band, bandit family and Tal-Vashoth group just didn’t seem like the greatest choice. However, Anders trusted his Guardian so he just shrugged and went along with it. Besides, Anders thought as Talon helped him put on his coat, perhaps Talon had found somewhere that was not crawling with people who wanted to kill them and steal everything they owned—or maybe he had talked to Hawke and gotten him and the others to clear the way for them.

 

Almost two hours and over thirty dead Tal-Vashoth and bandits later and Anders could clearly see this was not the case. And now here they were: both covered in blood and sweat their horses had fled when the first fight started, and the food they’d brought had been knocked out of their hands and trampled during the most recent fight. Anders was not impressed and made sure Talon was fully aware of this through their bond. Talon just shrugged then continued on the path they were following. Anders glared at him. Not only was he annoyed because this was turning out to be his least favorite name-day ever, but he was hesitant because he could tell Talon was hiding something from him. Anders didn’t like that. Mages and Guardians shared everything—their greatest fears, greatest desires, greatest secrets—even their dreams—so why would Talon hide anything from him? It unnerved him, and the fact that Talon seemed set on going wherever they were headed, despite the fact that they now had no food and were in dire need of a bath and wardrobe change wasn’t helping. But Anders trusted his Guardian. And, he reminded himself, being his Guardian Talon would never hurt him or deliberately lead him into danger. (Random bandits that Talon could kill in under five minutes didn’t count). Therefore, there was nothing to worry about. Anders repeated this to himself and held on to the feelings of comfort Talon was sending him to combat his worry as they continued on to…wherever it was they were going. At least things couldn’t get any worse, he thought.

Just then, the clouds that had started to gather while they were out decided that that was the perfect moment to empty their load. They were drenched within seconds.

_Oh, come on!_

Talon backed away a few feet, watching Anders warily as he let off a string of curses in Trade, then in Anders when he ran out of good Trade words. He could feel Talon’s admiration through the bond—Anders could get as creative as Isabela when it came to curse words and phrases when he was angry enough.

When he had finally run out of creative ideas and let off enough steam, he sat down heavily on a large rock and bit his lip to hide the fact that it had started to tremble. Talon knew, of course. Even without the bond, he had known him long enough to know all his tells. He sat down next to him and drew the unresisting mage close, rubbing his shoulder and sending him feelings of love and comfort through their bond. Anders sniffed then barked a self-deprecating laugh. Here he was: a fully grown bound mage who had not only thrown quite an impressive tantrum, but was now trying to hold back tears like a five-year-old who didn’t get the toy they wanted. And in the rain no less. Pathetic.

“No, you are not,” Talon rumbled, his tone leaving no room for argument as his voice resonated through Anders’ entire being, inside and out.

Anders sighed—of course Talon would pick that impression up through their bond; Anders was practically shouting it. “No?” he challenged, looking up at his Guardian with a raised eyebrow. “I’m a grown man trying to hold back tears in the middle of the rain because things didn’t go the way I’d wanted.”

“That doesn’t make you pathetic—that makes you just like any other grown man who’s had a long, exhausting, not-good day.”

“If you say so,” Anders replied wearily, though he did so with a small smirk and the twinkle in his eye that Talon knew meant he was no longer in danger of crying—was, in fact, able to see the humor in their situation as annoying as it was. Talon smiled then said, “Come on, let’s go back,”

“What? But I thought you wanted to have a picnic?” Anders exclaimed with feigned shock.

“In the rain?”

“Well, the bandits and Tal-Vashoth certainly didn’t seem to slow you down,” Anders pointed out.

“Those were bandits and Tal-Vashoth, all of which are dead. I cannot, however, kill the rain—however much I may want to,” Talon muttered as he glared at the sky as it continued to pelt them with water.  

Anders laughed. “Well, at least you’ve finally got some sense—though it would’ve been nice if that had happened before our horses had run off and we’d lost all of our food.” Anders stomach growled as though emphasizing that sentiment.

Talon chuckled, looking sheepish. “I know, and I’m sorry. I just—never mind.” He shook his head then stood. “Let’s just go.”

“I don’t know if I want to go now,” Anders said, shuffling on the rock as he pretended to get comfortable. “It’s rather nice here actually.”

Talon scowled at him then got a wicked gleam in his eye that always meant trouble for Anders. Before Anders could flee, Talon grabbed him and slung him over his shoulder—causing Anders to let out a very undignified squeak—then started walking back the way they had come. After getting over the initial shock, Anders tried to struggle but Talon just tightened his grip and said, “Stop that.”

“I’ll stop when you put me dow—Eep!” He let out another squeak when Talon smacked him lightly on the bottom. “Seriously!?” he squawked. “I am not a naughty child, Talon, now. Put. Me. Down!”

Talon chuckled. Anders could tell through the bond that he was enjoying this way too much. Then, instead of putting him down Talon stopped walking and swung him around so that Anders now had his legs wrapped around his waist and his arms around his shoulders, their faces inches apart. Talon raised an eyebrow at him. Anders just huffed. He was tall enough he could simply stretch out his legs and touch the ground with no trouble and Talon would let him go and they would be on their way—but Anders was cold and wet and miserable and Talon was warm and comfortable and he was flooding their bond with feelings of love and comfort and Anders just really didn’t feel like walking at the moment.

With a sigh Anders admitted defeat, closing his eyes and resting his head on Talon’s shoulder. He felt his Guardian’s amusement through their bond, his laugh vibrating in his chest as he started forward again. After a few rain-soaked minutes, Anders stated dryly, “If Hawke or Isabela sees you carrying me this way and starts making inappropriate remarks I am going to electrocute them in the ass.”

Again, amusement flooded their bond as Talon laughed. “If either of them do that, I will chase them away with my big, sharp sword— _then_ you can electrocute them in the ass.”

Anders snickered. “Don’t let Isabela hear you say that or she’ll get the wrong idea and goad you on.”

Talon’s laughter echoed across the coast.

 

It took them over three hours to get back to their home in Lowtown. By then, Anders had forgotten about the fact that Talon was hiding something from him, simply glad that the rain had stopped and given way to bright sunshine and blue skies. They were still soaked, but at least the rain had washed away all the blood and sweat. A few people gave them odd looks as they walked through the winding streets, but most of the city’s residents recognized the Healer and his Guardian, sent by King Alistair to help the Ferelden refugees that had fled the blight just a few years before. Many of them smiled and nodded as they went by while others waved and offered quick greetings before continuing with their business.

None of them were at all put out by the fact that Talon was carrying him like a five-year-old; the Guardians they passed nodded in approval in fact, right after their instincts flared in recognition that there was a Healer present. Their mages smiled at Anders and Talon with amusement at the familiar scene. Anders and Talon often argued (quite loudly) after he finished his shift each day at either of his clinics over how hard Anders worked and Talon’s stubborn refusal to let him simply walk home. These arguments usually ended as their conversation at the coast had: with Talon simply picking him up and Anders, realizing just how tired he was, giving in with a resigned sigh and allowing himself to be carried back home, much to Anders’ chagrin. Not that he really minded—he did have a habit of exhausting himself on a daily basis.

A group of children started to follow them when they reached the market, giggling and laughing and calling “Healer! Healer!” Anders opened his eyes and lifted his head to smile at them. Just as the thought crossed his mind, Talon stopped and set him down gently with a smile. Anders smiled back then turned to the children who had stopped just a few feet away with hopeful expressions.

He bent down and beckoned them forward. They scurried over, excitement lighting up their young faces. Their parents watched from a few yards behind, some impatient, some not, all wondering just what the Healer would do. A couple of them were mages; their Guardians stood close behind, keeping a close eye on the children as well as their mages. Their gazes would dart to Anders every-once-in-a-while as well, but with Talon present they were not too concerned. Watching the children as they circled around him, Anders wondered just how many of the younger ones would grow up to have magic. He smiled at the thought of new faces among the circle students.

Once Anders was sure all the children could see his hands, he drew upon his magic and summoned a small magelight. The younger children gasped in awe as the older children—and, to Anders’ amusement, their parents—looked at it with disappointment. They had clearly been hoping for a more exciting display. Anders chuckled then, drawing on his magic again and his Guardian’s strength, he closed his fist.

After a moment, light started to shine out from between his fingers bright and golden. It lit up his face and that of the children, catching the eye of many of passers-by who now stopped to watch the show. All of the children seemed to hold their breath as his magic built and the light grew brighter. Their parents and the Guardians watched with as rapt attention, as did the crowd that was growing steadily bigger as more and more people noticed what was happening. Talon tensed when he saw that a few of the most recent people to stop and watch were Night Captain Cullen and a couple of his men. Neither he nor the other Guardians had forgotten what happened a few years earlier. But the Templar seemed as relaxed and curious as the rest of the crowd. So when he gave Talon a respectful nod the Guardian relaxed slightly and returned the gesture—though he made sure to keep one eye on the Night Captain.

Anders closed his eyes, whispered a few words and suddenly the light when out. Everyone watching started to express disappointment—then gasped when Anders opened his hand and a hummingbird darted out. Its feathers were gold and shimmered in the sunlight, its wings leaving afterglows in the air as they beat frantically. A streak of golden light followed in its wake as it flited around the children, making them giggle and laugh, a few of them trying and failing to catch it. It let out a sound like a small giggle as it darted over to and throughout the crowd; light and airy like dust motes caught in a ray of sunlight, the sound made everyone within earshot of it laugh and chuckle.  

“A laughter spirit?” Talon laughed as it twirled around him a few times before darting away.

“Why not?” Anders laughed the same large smile on his face as was on everyone’s. Talon just shook his head and they watched it flit around excitedly, spreading its laughter throughout the square. Anders heart warmed as he watched it; spirits loved being able to explore the waking world, especially the little ones like Laughter and Joy.

After a few more minutes, Anders told the children it was time to send it back. Everyone, expressed disappointment—the adults more so than the children making Anders laugh even harder. The spirit just giggled again, causing the rest to chuckle then darted over to Anders when he called it with a bit of magic. It hovered just above his hand, allowing him to see how delicate and gossamer-like its wings and beak were. Its little legs were tucked up to its underbelly, which shimmered just a little brighter than the rest of it. He was reluctant to send it back so soon, but spirits needed magic to sustain themselves outside of the Fade and, despite what everyone seemed to think, being a Spirit Healer did not mean he had an endless supply of mana. So he called upon his magic again and with another tinkle of laughter that echoed back from the crowd around them, it disappeared in a small flash of light. 

Immediately after, Anders had the breath knocked out of him as all the children tackled him, knocking him to the ground as they hugged and thanked him. Their parents quickly pulled their children away, apologizing as Talon helped him stand up. He just waved his hand dismissively and, waving at the children with a smile that they returned enthusiastically, he and Talon continued their walk home. The crowd quickly dispersed now that the show was over. Cullen gave them another nod, a chuckle still on his tongue before he and his men also dispersed.

A little while later and they were entering the front door of their house. Anders smiled as he took off his coat—now just damp instead of soaked—and hung it on a wall hook in the hallway before stepping into the kitchen and looking around. The house was of moderate size with a hallway leading from the front door to the bottom floor where the kitchen, a small study Anders used primarily for potion mixing, and the main room which housed their book collection and a small fireplace were located. A staircase led to the second floor where the house’s two bedrooms and the wash room were. Anders thought it was the perfect size for him, his Guardian, and Charlie, who they’d given the smaller of the two bedrooms. (Anders was glad the chef didn’t have to sleep in a chair every night seeing as he’d been set on living with them. Not that he would’ve minded—the elf probably would’ve slept on the floor if it meant he could cook for them. The depth of his loyalty and enthusiasm was both heartwarming and a little off-putting considering they had at that point known him for no more than about thirty minutes).

Anders much preferred it over the large Hightown estate Viscount Dumar and Grand Cleric Elthina had offered them when they had first arrived. They had felt that as a Healer he deserved only the best in exchange for his services. But Anders was there to help alleviate some of the tension in the city primarily by helping the refugees from Ferelden. Since most of them were in Darktown, he felt it was only right to live as close to them and be easy to get to as possible. They had been reluctant at first, wanting him to take up residence in an estate close to the Chantry, but quickly conceded when Talon—who knew full well that Anders did not feel comfortable living in luxury while the majority of his patients lived otherwise—brought up the fact that he was going to set up his main clinic in Darktown. He’d certainly be close to them and easy to reach if he was living there! Both Elthina and Viscount Dumar found the thought of a Healer living in the Undercity—Guardian or no—unacceptable. So the Lowtown house, located near the stairs leading to Hightown, was given to them as a compromise. Knowing that Talon had preferred the Hightown house but had given Anders the Lowtown one out of love, Anders had given him a quick kiss on the cheek after they left the Chantry with their new deed and other belongings. (Anders did have to admit he was grateful that due to the house’s close proximity to Hightown, it was one of the Lowtown houses with a water pump in the wash room).

Speaking of the wash room—he wrinkled his nose as he looked down at his soaked clothes. A bath followed by some time relaxing in front of the fire in the main room with a book and a small meal sounded like a lovely idea at the moment. He quickly bounded up the stairs, shedding clothes as he went. He stopped when he reached the landing, however, the thought of food making him realize he couldn’t hear Charlie. The elf was never quiet save when they were all asleep, whistling, humming, and occasionally cursing when he burned himself or a dish did not come out precisely how he had planned. The only time he was truly silent was when they were all sleeping—and not even then if he woke up before them to prepare breakfast like he had that morning.

His confusion was forgotten when Talon nearly bulled Anders over in his attempt to get into the bathing room first. Anders huffed at him then laughed when he got the impression through their bond that Talon did so because he was determined to have the bath drawn and cleaning supplies ready for him before he reached the room. He laughed again when he did reach it to find that the Guardian had had enough time to start filling the bath and grab a towel. Talon just grunted at him in annoyance then gathered up the rest of the cleaning supplies and finished filling the basin. Anders rolled his eyes fondly and finished undressing. He threw his dirty clothes into the small hamper they had with a look of disgust. He was not looking forward to cleaning those.

It took a two minute argument after the basin was full to convince Talon that, _yes_ , he could wash himself and put on his own clothes! Him being naked wasn’t the problem—being naked in front of one’s mage or Guardian was no different than being naked in front of one’s lover, even if the bond was not of a sexual nature like Merrill and Carver’s was. They already knew everything about each other after all, what was there to hide? No—the problem was that Talon seemed convinced that just because he had been tired earlier and allowed Talon to carry him home, that meant he was too weak to bathe and get dressed by himself! Talon thankfully conceded, apparently coming to the conclusion that if Anders felt up to a two-minute-long argument, he had the energy to get himself cleaned up. So with a huff, he left Anders to change and went to their bedroom, having decided to just put on a clean change of clothes while Anders bathed.

When Anders came down the stairs—body clean, clothes changed and hair dried—and started to make his way toward the main room, Talon suddenly appeared in front of him and said, “Wait—you can’t go in there yet!”

Anders paused, taken aback. “What—why?” He tried to look around Talon who had flung out his arms in his effort to stop him and was now moving side to side in order to block Anders’ view. He was not able to prevent him from seeing that the door to the main room was closed which was unusual—nor was he able to stop Anders from hearing the clink of glass from behind said door, followed by the sounds of angry mutters and smothered giggles which were quickly cut off by quiet shushing.

The sounds made Talon wince, his fingers curling a bit as he glanced at the door with what Anders could only describe as a pained expression. Crossing his arms he said, “Talon,” making the Guardian wince again as he looked back at Anders. He felt strong feelings of anxiety and anxiousness from Talon before the Guardian quickly pulled them back and gave him the fakest smile he had ever seen—which, considering how many patients he’d had that pretended they were fine even when they were bleeding or had broken bones, was saying something.

“Talon. What is going on?”

“Uh…” Talon trailed off then said, “Wait here!” before bolting over to the door and cracking it open just enough to whisper something to someone on the other side.

With a role of his eyes and an exasperated huff, Anders stalked over to the door and shoved past Talon and into the room before Talon could stop him—and was immediately greeted with the sight of all his friends, along with Charlie, all of Hawke’s servants, Anders’ mother and his lover, Karl, crowded together surrounding a table with chairs piled with food, wine and presents.

They all froze when he entered. Hawke was apparently in the process of picking up a few wine glasses that had been knocked to the floor. Charlie seemed to be standing guard by the food and in the middle of reprimanding Sandal whose mouth was stuffed full of…something. The rest were semi-hidden by the room’s bookshelves and the two large chairs that faced the fireplace, all poised as though ready to jump out and surprise him. This was confirmed when Talon jumped in front of him and gesturing to the room with a smile said, “SURPRISE!”  

“SURPRISE!” the others shouted. Anders had just enough time to give Talon a raised eyebrow and say, “Really, Talon—A surprise party?” before they rushed him. Talon just shrugged with a smile, taking a quick step back so as to avoid getting bowled over.

Anders laughed and returned their hugs as they congratulated him and wished him a happy name-day. His mother gave him a small kiss on the cheek, her eyes full of love and pride as she smiled at him, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “Happy name-day, Alhmanic,” she said. Sebastian clasped him on the arm in congratulations and gave him a quick blessing. Fenris gave him a quick, firm handshake and muttered congratulations which Anders returned with a smile and a thank-you. He sent waves of calm and assurance through his bond to placate his Guardian who was trading glares with the elf the entire time before he retreated to his spot by Isabela. While Fenris and Talon did not get along very well, Fenris’ wariness toward mages had lessened greatly over the years to the point where he and Anders got along fairly well. He wouldn’t say they were friends exactly, but they were more than allies. That didn’t mean the elf didn’t still have an aversion to touch—though Anders knew it had more to do with his markings and how much they hurt than the fact that Anders was a mage. He had almost perfected a spell to help with that, he just needed one more ingredient…

His thoughts were interrupted when Bethany’s Guardian—a warrior from Antiva who was large enough to be a wall all by himself—looked to Talon for approval before crushing Anders in a bear-hug, then returning to Bethany’s side. He got not only a hug but a dip and a deep kiss from Karl that garnered a mired of reactions from eye-roles and disgusted noises to whistles and shouts of “Get a room!”

Anders blushed scarlet and smiled shyly at his lover as he was swung back up onto his feet. He shook his head with a smile as he took in the table, the presents and the banner with the words “HAPPY NAME-DAY!” painted on it in red that was strung up in the back. He turned to Talon and gave him a raised eyebrow. “So let me guess: you brought me to a bandit and Tal-Vashoth infested beach— _in the rain_ —to distract me while they set all this all up?”

“The bandits and Tal-Vashoth had been accounted for!” Talon stated quickly. Then a little sheepishly he added, “Admittedly, the rain and loss of our food and horses had…not.”

Anders shook his head, smiling. He opened his mouth to saying something—but was interrupted by Charlie, who looked mildly horrified, exclaiming, “You did not get to eat the food I made you?”

“No we—” Anders began before Talon cut in and said, “They were just a couple of sandwiches made for the trip—no great loss.”

“‘No great loss’?” Charlie exclaimed, clearly offended. “Those were not ‘just sandwiches’! They were beautifully-crafted MASTERPICES that are now naught but seagull food!”

“Charlie,” Talon said exasperated, “I told you not to make any of your ‘masterpieces’ for this—”

“I never make anything less than the finest food—!”

“I am sure they were delicious. Charlie,” Anders interrupted, giving his Guardian a pointed look which earned him an eye roll. “And I am sorry we didn’t get a chance to eat them. Though it looks like what you made for the party is even better than those sandwiches.”

Charlie sniffed. “True—I made a few special dishes for the occasion!”

“Then it really isn’t such a great loss.”

With another sniff Charlie said, “I suppose not,” then went back to guarding the food and eyeing Sandal as though he was going to try to eat all of it.

“Though, it would have been nice if we could’ve gone somewhere where there are less bandits and less chance of us losing our food, like Sundermount,” Anders stated.

“Oh—that was my fault!” Merrill squeaked. “I was at Sundermount looking for your present and well…we all know I’m terrible at keeping secrets.” That last was said with a slight blush and a sheepish smile.

“You aren’t that bad, Merrill,” Carver said, drawing her into a one-armed hug. Anders smiled at them as Merrill gave Carver a shy smile and hugged him back.

Their bonding had been a slightly unconventional one. Being Dalish, she had not been bound to a Guardian when she had reached maturity. When asked, she’d once told him that her people did not approve of the ritual due to its connection to the Chantry, and many feared they would be forced to leave their clan afterward. Anders understood that, though he was uncertain whether the Chantry would truly force them to leave their clan behind or not. The only times he was aware of where a Dalish elf had been bound, they had already left their clan for one reason or another and ended up living in land ruled by Chantry law before the bonding occurred. The Dalish being as protective of their mages as the Chantry was of its, Merrill was one of only three Dalish mages who had been recorded to have left their clan and moved to a Chantry-ruled area, and therefore be bound according to Chantry law. She had been quite excited to experience it after she had moved into the alienage since she was going to be living there from then on, and was fascinated with the ritual and the idea behind it. The fact that Carver (who she had been smitten with and who had been smitten with her since they had first met) had been picked for her only made it all the better.

Anders turned back to Talon and crossed his arms. “Why?” he asked. “Not that I don’t love that you guys did this but—?”

With a smile, Talon cut him off and said, “I know you hate those fancy places we usually go to, so I sent a letter to your mother and together we decided that this time we would just have a simple little get-together with friends!”

Anders’ mother put her hand on his shoulder to get his attention. “Talon told me how much you disliked those fancy dinners—you needn’t have put up with them for my sake, mien Liebling! I would’ve understood if you’d told me you would prefer something like this instead!”

Anders’ checks red with embarrassment, he turned to Talon and hissed, “You _told_ her?”

“Now, now, Alhmanic,” his mother chided him, “he didn’t simply blurt it out. He was actually very careful in his letters to make it sound like the idea of doing something other than a fancy dinner was entirely his own—but I could tell there was more to it and coaxed it out of him. Call it…a Mother’s intuition.” She chuckled.

Face still red, Anders said, “Oh.” Sending Talon feelings of remorse at jumping to conclusions he turned back to him and said, “Sorry.”

Talon just waved hand, feelings of love flowing through the bond to let him know he wasn’t at all offended.

“HEY!” Isabela called suddenly, getting everyone’s attention. “Are we here to celebrate or share anecdotes? Cause I thought this was supposed to be a party!”

“It is—”

“Then let’s get started already!” Isabela shouted. The others cheered and soon wine was poured and food dished out.

Sebastian declined the wine, opting instead to drink a glass of non-alcoholic cider. Hawke and Fenris were soon in a contest to see who could drink the other under the table. This quickly developed into a wrestling match in the middle of the floor when Isabela made a comment that just because Fenris could hold more liquor didn’t mean he was stronger than Hawke. She was now watching the way their muscles bulged with rapt attention as she drank the wine Fenris had set down when he and Hawke started wrestling.

Every once-in-a-while, she would slip a bit of wine into Sebastian’s glass when he wasn’t looking. The others got a kick out of him declining to notice, and slowly go from sober to tipsy as the night wore on. Charlie, having forgotten about the sandwiches in the face of everyone loving the venison and other food he had prepared, was still eyeing Sandal, though now he was also talking to Orana about favorite seasonings. Anders’ mother caught him up on all the most recent gossip from his home village that she had not been able to include in her letters and he responded in kind about Kirkwall. She laughed when he brought up the awkward helping of Aveline with her attempted Donnic courtship. Thankfully the two were on the other side of the room and too wrapped up in the game of Wicked Grace Varric had managed to get started in front of the fireplace to pay any attention. Otherwise, Anders was sure Aveline would’ve had something to say about him telling anyone outside of their circle of friends about that. Merrill and Carver were in their own corner, blushing and whispering things to each other. They reminded Anders of the young mages and Escorts who would flirt blushingly in the circles; the thought made him smile.

At some point, Merrill bounded over to Anders with a box wrapped in brown paper. She held it out to him silently, a shy smile on her lips. The others stopped playing their game when Aveline noticed he was opening Merrill’s gift and came over to see what it was. Anders gasped when he saw opened it and read what the scroll inside was: the recipe for a Rune of Valiance. He was even more shocked when he saw that beneath the paper were three packages and a small vial—the ingredients needed to make the rune. “Merrill,” he breathed, looking up at her in wonder, “this is amazing—you went and found _all_ of this? For me?”

She nodded. “Well,” she said, “I only found the recipe—it was in that cave where we fought the Varterral. The rest of the things I bought from Ilen.”

“The dragon’s blood must’ve cost a fortune,” Bethany marveled.

“Oh, it was expensive,” she confirmed with a smile, “but I still had lots of money left over from the last job we did with Hawke, so it was no trouble!” Turning shy again, she said, “Happy name-day, Anders.”

 “Thank you, Merrill. Truly!” Anders said. Merrill just blushed in response, waving her hand to say it was nothing.

“You’re too sweet, Merrill,” Carver said giving her a proud smile that made her blush deeper. 

Varric coughed loudly to get everyone’s attention. “As touching as this is, I, personally, would like to see what other things Anders got!”

“You want everyone to see what _you_ got him, you mean,” Fenris mumbled.

“What, afraid yours won’t be able to top Daisy’s?” Varric mocked. Fenris just rolled his eyes with a snort.  

“I doubt anyone’s will be able to top Merrill’s,” Bethany said causing her Guardian to put his hand on her shoulder.

“Speak for yourselves,” Varric said scoffed. “I know a thing or two about gift-giving!” he added, earning a derisive snort from Aveline which he pointedly ignored. 

“Then why don’t you give him _your_ present next!” she offered.

“I’d be glad too!” he stated before going over to the small stack, earning him another eye roll, this time from Aveline.

He returned with a wrapped package that turned out to be a signed copy of his book _Hard In Hightown_. “To pass the time,” Varric said with a wink. He motioned to Anders to open it who did so feeling just a little disappointed—a feeling that quickly changed to surprise when he found, pressed between the cover and first page, a bundle of dried and pressed witherstalk. When he looked up at Varric to thank him, the dwarf motioned for him to keep going, leading to Anders finding some dried and pressed amerita vein, ghoul’s beard and dragonthorn. While these things—being hardy and able to survive the harsh summers and devastating sandstorms that prevented most other plants from growing there—were common in the Anderfels, they were rare in the rest of Thedas, making them hard to come across when he wasn’t serving in his home country and expensive to buy from merchants elsewhere.

He breathily thanked Varric who told him it was no trouble before giving Aveline a smug smile which she returned with a heated glare. Merrill, who could be surprising tactful sometimes and could see the coming storm brewing behind the Captain’s eyes, quickly announced she wanted to see what the rest of the presents were and rushed to grab one. This turned out to be a pendent from Anders’ mother, made of nevarrite—another thing common to the Anderfels that was considered rare most elsewhere. And like the plants Varric gave him it was a physical thing from his home that he could carry no matter how far he went. It would also remind him of his mother every time he wore it—just like the pillow she had made him when he first discovered his magic and which now sat on his bed down the hallway.

The next thing Merrill handed him was a new grip for his staff from Aveline. This one had a small spot for a rune to be put which made Anders look back at Merrill’s present with a smile before thanking the captain. After that he was gifted with a box full of potion bottles from Fenris to replace the ones that got accidently broken (or, unfortunately, stolen) by Anders’ patients or because of his own clumsiness. When Anders thanked him sincerely he grunted in response, failing to hide the small smile on his lips and twitch of his ears that showed he was pleased Anders liked the gift. No, they weren’t exactly friends—but they were certainly more than just allies. Next was a book in spirit theory from Bethany, a new staff handle from Hawke (who, Anders noticed with surprise, actually appeared to be blushing ever-so-slightly); a book of master-level potion recipes from Karl, which held within its pages the needed ingredients of a few of the recipes; and finally, a Chantry candle from Sebastian, who explained it was meant to be lit in times of great suffering and need as a symbol of Andraste. He said he had found comfort in one himself when his life had started to take quite a dark turn before he was dedicated to the Chantry.

Anders thanked them all, overwhelmed by their kindness. Immediately after, Varric stated they should all play Wicked Grace, leading to them discovering just how surprisingly good at it Anders’ mother was. She devastated the others with flushes and straights, one after the other. Even Isabela, who everyone knew cheated to some degree, could not best her to the others’ amusement and her chagrin. (They were all grateful that Isabela had been outnumbered when it came to wanting to play strip Wicked Grace—none of them would’ve been able to live down having the older woman see them all in their smalls).

After everyone else had lost, looking wistfully at the pile of money that now sat next Anders’ mother, Orana picked up her lute from its spot by the fireplace and started to play. The tune was fast and light and joyful and soon everyone was dancing and laughing and tripping over each other and their own feet as they became tipsier with each drink. Isabela started singing sea shanties that managed to go along with the tune. Hawke joined in almost immediately with his own versions that were even more lewd than Isabela’s, his deep rich baritone filling up the room and growing louder with each glass. Encouraged by the wine Isabela had slipped him, Sebastian also joined in matching Hawke’s volume and lewd words to everyone else’s amusement. The room was quickly filled with the sound of the pirate, warrior and archer getting into a singing match for who could come up with the “saltiest” song and the others’ laughter. 

That's when everything fell apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the ending is not supposed to make complete sense--yes it will be explained in the next couple chapters--no I will tell you anything else!! :P


	4. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wynne retrieves Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO, YOUR EYES HAVE NOT DECIEVED YOU, THIS IS IN FACT A NEW CHAPTER--YAY!! XD
> 
> I am so so so so so so SO sorry for this MASSIVELY late update--2016 was not a good year for me and this year I had very little time to write much less edit. (Add in writing myself into a corner with NO way out TWICE and well...)
> 
> ANYWAY, I hope that the fact that this chapter is longer than the last and has much more Anders in it will make up for the long wait! 
> 
> Also: BIG MEGA THANK YOU to EVERYONE who has left comments and kudos on this, you are all amazing and it means so much and is so encouraging that my first ever fic has gotten so much love!! XD I don't think I could have motivated myself to finish and post this chapter if it hadn't been for your guys's reviews!! *HUGS* 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are welcome!! XD
> 
> Enjoy!! ^^

_“I was shown vast oceans, containing not water, but memories, drawn from the minds of dreamers. I drifted through frozen moments, like paintings, perfect in each detail.”_

_―Magister Callistus_

 

 

Wynne traveled through the Fade, keeping a watchful eye out for any sign of demons. She didn’t think any would try to attack with Truth traveling beside her but one could never be too careful.

Like all who dreamed, she had been to the Fade nearly every night and like all Healers she had often found herself accompanied by Fade spirits drawn to her power. Never before had she been in the Fade while accompanied by a spirit of truth, however. The experience was unlike anything she had had before.

Wherever they went, the Fade would shift and change, reacting to her imagination and emotions until it became something familiar: the room she had been given in the Ferelden Circle after becoming First Enchanter; Val Royoux during a Summerday celebration; the Market Square in Denerim; and so on. And the moment Truth’s presence touched a vision, it would be pulled apart piece-by-piece like petals being blown off a tree as the lie was stripped away, leaving only the true landscape of the Fade—the truth—behind.

It was a strange and eerie landscape, both formless and not. The air was heavy yet there was no air at all, tendrils of fog and mist both there and not there spiraling and drifting past her lazily. She felt as though she was walking on nothing while at the same time thought the ground was made of barren rock or sand or hard tile. There was no vegetation or water to speak of, yet she could see the shapes of plants familiar and not all around her and hear water off in the distance. Crumbling structures of varying sizes—some almost recognizable in shape, others completely alien—seemed to solidify around her before becoming smoke or fog once more. Off in the distance, Wynne could sometimes see massive high rises, some of which appeared to be enormous edifices that had long ago started to crumble and fall apart with age like the structures nearer to her, as well as great, jagged boulders that hung in the air as though suspended from an invisible ceiling. Other times there was nothing but an endless, formless sky. There was no real scent or color—and yet at the same time there was every color and scent imaginable, swirling together just out of reach of her senses. She thought she could almost see flickers of color out of the corner of her eye; catch the smallest whiffs of almost-scent, hinting at what could be—and disappearing the moment she tried to focus on them.

It was also silent, so much so she could feel it like a pressure on her ears—and yet all around her, strange alien noises that sounded almost like words she could not quite make out echoed clearly back and forth. All of it left her with a feeling of potential, as though if she could just focus on a color, a scent, a shape, a sound, it would spring to life and form right before her eyes and fill her senses. This feeling of potential was reminiscent of how raw mana felt when it was called forth before it was given shape and purpose, and so she doubted it was something any who wasn’t a mage would notice.

And rising above all else, hanging dark and terrible in the swirling sky was the Black City. It was the one thing no vision could hide, and the only thing that stayed solid and absolute in this world that seemed ever-changing even with Truth’s presence. Like all mages, one of her first lessons had been to search for the Black City if unsure whether she was dreaming or not—for if you search for it you will always find it. There had been a few times where she had done this and found it, shattering the dream around her and waking her. But never had she seen it outside the confines of a dream. The sight made her shudder as a chill ran down her spine. She quickly looked away, unsettled.

And then there was Truth itself. Just as people had an effect on the Fade itself, so too did they affect the spirits that called it home causing them to take on the form one would expect when faced with the virtue they represented: Love appearing as the one closest to a person’s heart or Justice appearing as a mighty, exalted knight. But Truth—Truth was a different matter. Unlike other things, Truth was not swayed by a person’s emotions or thoughts. It did not conform to one’s opinions or bow to another’s will. It did not appear as one expected, for just because you expect something does not make it truth. Truth simply was. And in the case of the spirit, that meant it had no particular, recognizable shape—instead it appeared as light that was felt more than seen or heard. Its presence was all encompassing, lighter than air yet in-ignorable, and invited all around it to come near and forsake all lies. Shifting and swaying like the currents of an ocean, it moved fluidly, gracefully through the Fade filling it with its presence and stripping away any and all lies that dared confront it. Like the virtue it represented, it simply was.

When Wynne had first summoned it, she had found herself letting down all walls, all guards to even the darkest parts of her until she was stripped naked before this ancient spirit. She had immediately felt guilt, shame at some what it saw—her greatest fears and secrets that only her Guardian and the Maker knew. But it was not in Truth’s nature to be cruel—only honest despite how one may feel about it—and after looking into every facet of her soul it had welcomed her, celebrating her willingness to forsake the walls it viewed as lies and letting it see _her_ in her entirety. Afterward, it had asked her what she needed. When she told it of Alhmanic, it had agreed to help and they had begun their journey through the Fade.

Truth led her confidently. It never paused nor slowed no matter what, though it made sure to keep in pace with her so she would not fall behind. It moved as though there was a trail only it could see that was leading it straight to their goal—which Wynne did not doubt was the case. To the Fade’s denizens, mages shone like stars in the darkness, and Healers even more so, their presence closer to that of individual suns lighting up the heavens. The magic that flowed in their veins also left an obvious trial behind that only spirits—and unfortunately demons—could see and easily follow. Another thing Wynne was grateful for, despite it being a double-edged sword. She never could have hoped to find the other Healer in the Fade in time, vast as it was, without a spirit’s aid.

After she did not know how long, she spotted a point of light ahead of her. As they drew closer, she was able to hear singing and laughter echoing across the landscape. Closer they went, the sounds of what sounded like a celebration of sorts growing louder with each step until finally she found herself in a bustling city. On the opposite side of the street from her sat a two-story house near a large flight of stairs. It was from inside this house the noises were coming. She saw that already Truth was stripping the dream away, leaving nothing but the same desolate landscape behind. Except…here it was not so desolate. This part of the Fade seemed…lighter somehow. The air was not as heavy; there was not so much fog and the sounds of water was louder; the smells sweeter and cleaner, the crumbling structures and the plants more familiar, beautiful even. Mystified, the Healer took a moment to examine the landscape before her, doing her best to commit it to memory for further analysis later. There were mages she knew who would be fascinated to learn that like the Waking world, there were apparently places in the Fade that differed in appearance beyond what was shaped by dreams.

Seeing flakes of the vision directly in front of her drift away into nothing brought her out of her thoughts. She looked around and saw that only the street and the house remained. Every other last bit of the dream had been pulled apart by Truth, which now patiently waited beside her. She walked toward the house, not bothering to open the front door when she got there as it was pulled apart by Truth before she reached it. The same went with the rest of the house, which was now silent. No doubt its occupants had noticed their presence. She quickly made her way through, heading for the room the sounds seemed to have originated from.

 

 

 

Anders’ world was falling apart. Everyone had gone abruptly quiet, their eyes wide with fear and shock as the room started to…crumble; to flake away. It was like every item, every surface including the room itself was being pulled apart by invisible hands before fading away as though swallowed by the Void. All in a silence that was louder than any sound Anders had ever heard. And what was left behind: an eerie landscape, alien and frightening, formless and not, with strange, alien noises replacing the silence—and far off in the distance, blackened and dead, hung the Black City itself. Anders’ chest tightened as he took a step back, shaking his head. No—no that couldn’t be right! That couldn’t be the Black City! Because if it was that meant everything around him, everything that had happened—the trip to the Coast, the party, his friends, Karl, _Talon_ —they were… _were_ …

Terror gripped him. Squeezed. He turned to Talon seeking comfort, reassurance—only to find that he was not even paying attention to him. Instead he was looking at the door leading out of the room, his gaze intense, awed…reverent almost. Anders saw the others were doing the same, standing so still it was like they had stopped breathing. He followed their gazes and saw the doorway was now occupied by what appeared to be an older woman. Anders recognized her as First Enchanter Wynne. Except it couldn’t be her; she was in Ferelden, waiting for her next contract—or she would be if this was the waking world, which the presence of the Black City proved it wasn’t. And that could only mean one thing: the woman before him was not Wynne but a demon.

_No!_

It raised its hands in a placating gesture then, taking a step forward, calmly called, “Alhmanic.” Breath catching with fear, Anders instinctively reached out to Talon through their bound, flooding it with fear so Talon would be roused and kill the demon—only to clutch his chest with a gasp when he realized he couldn’t feel Talon anymore. It was as though their bond had been severed, and in its place was a terrible gaping hole that was slowly growing within him. His chest clenched painfully. He knew what that hole meant but was unwilling to face it, thinking it was a trick the demon was playing—yes, that was it! The demon would pay for that! He reached out again only to be met with the same terrible feeling as before. Staring at Talon in horror, he tried again and was met again with the same result. Heart pounding, he called his Guardian’s name searching his face to for any sign that he had heard him. When he still got no response, he pushed away a feeling of forbidding and stepped toward him, searching his eyes intently. He considered using rejuvenate to rouse him since the bond wasn’t working— _why wasn’t it working?_ —so he would kill the demon and they could wake. Then he saw something that made him freeze, his breath catching in his throat.

Talon’s eyes…they were close, so close—the right color, size, shape—but at the same time they were just a little wrong, a little off. They didn’t reflect Talon’s soul, he realized after a moment. Instead they showed a disturbing…emptiness so subtle you would only notice it if you looked hard enough. And once you saw it, there was no mistaking it for what it was; no pretending it was just a trick of the light. The person next to him was not his Guardian; just a figment of the Fade, ethereal as a dream. His mind reeling at the sudden realization, Anders turned sharply back to the demon. It was now slowly moving toward him, its hands still raised just as the last of the world he knew faded away into nothing.

“No,” he whimpered, as he started backing away, shaking his head as though that would dispel the beast away from him. “Maker, _please_ no!” Tears stun his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Maker he was scared. Talon, where was Talon? Why wasn’t he here with him? He wasn’t dead—he _wasn’t_ , the void in his heart was a lie, a trick, it had to be!—but he wasn’t here. Why hadn’t Talon shown up the moment the demon appeared and replaced the imposter next to him? Why couldn’t he feel him? He could _always_ feel him! He tried again to reach out as the demon continued toward him then clutched his chest harder, digging in with his nails when still he felt nothing; nothing but emptiness. He was sobbing now, fear a living, breathing thing inside him. He didn’t know how or why, but he was in the Fade with a demon, Guardianless, unprotected, alone—and Talon wasn’t coming.

He couldn’t do this, he thought, backing away still as the demon kept coming, arms still raised in that placating gesture. Anders was anything but placated. He realized it was speaking again.  _Probably trying to tempt me,_ he thought idly, though through the rising panic he couldn’t make out the words to know for certain. Oh, _Maker_ —he had never faced a demon without his Guardian. Without Talon’s strength, his courage, his presence, he was too weak, too vulnerable. Sweet Andraste he would fall. Without Talon he would fall and the demon would take control of his body, his magic and then it would— _No!_ he thought, a sudden resolve replacing some of the fear. He refused to let that happen; he would die before he let himself become a demon’s puppet! He had no idea how the demon had managed to block his connection to his Guardian, but he knew Talon would want him to stay strong and not give in—to resist with every last ounce of his strength and will. And he would not disappointment him.  

With tremendous effort, he forced himself to steel his heart and push aside his fear and the grief he could feel on the edge of his consciousness, replacing both with fierce determination. Wiping away his tears and ignoring the ragged hole in his heart, Anders summoned a torrent of flame and prepared to strike the demon down. Besides healing, fire had always come easiest to him. He planned on shooting flames, drawing upon his life force when his mana ran out either until the demon was dead or until he killed himself. He hoped it was the former for his Guardian’s sake; Talon would blame himself if Anders died. The demon stopped in its tracks and yelled, “Alhmanic, wait—!” but he just ignored it and moved to attack—then stopped as from behind the demon came an intense light that was almost blinding.

Anders cried out in shock, the flames in his palms abruptly going out as he covered his eyes. The light seemed only to brighten, making it so he could see it through his eyelids even with his hands covering his face. Then suddenly, the light dimmed, leaving the space behind his lids dark once more. Hesitantly, he lowered his hands, afraid of what he might see. His eyes widened in shock as he did so for the demon was now hidden behind a spirit—one of truth he realized as he found himself letting down all his barriers, opening himself to it unthinkingly. A feeling of joy at his willingness to forsake those barriers Truth saw as lies surrounded him as it looked over every facet of his naked soul. And while it did this, the others started to change. Their forms shown as they went from friends and family to balls and streaks of light—spirits, he realized, feeling hysteria bubbling in his chest. They were spirits; ones of laughter and joy, kindness and celebration. They did not appear as anything specific, Truth seeing even those forms as lies. His heart clenched as he watched Karl change into one such spirit before joining the others as they circled around him and the thing that looked like Talon before moving to circle around Truth and the demon.

Except…it couldn’t be a demon, he thought as he watched the little spirits dance around it, soaking in its presence and laughter and delighting in the small bursts of magic it cast. Demons were Fade spirits’ greatest enemies. Truth would have stripped away the lie it wore and destroyed it already if it really was a demon. Instead, it had let it—her—stay. And while it was possible smaller spirits could be tricked, there was no demon, no matter how cunning or strong-willed that could trick or best Truth. That meant the woman before him really was Wynne—but…how? Why?

Anders was brought out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, having almost forgotten about the thing next to him wearing Talon’s face. Its eyes were now bright with a shockingly sharp intelligence that, though alien was kind and strangely inviting. It gave him a small, sad smile, eyes crinkling, then dropped its hand from Anders’ shoulder and turned to face Truth before it, too, changed. A sob tore its way past Anders’ lips and a tear rolled down his cheek. Despite knowing it wasn’t his Guardian, a part of him still ached at the sight of even of a vision of Talon turning away from him.

Its transformation was more dramatic, for it was not one of the little spirits that were dancing all around them. Its form shown like the others until it was brighter than they were, brighter even than Truth. Anders felt his blood thrum with power as golden light flowed and arched and danced around it, faster and faster as it grew in size until it was as big as Truth. Then the light dimmed to Truth’s brightness and seemed to condense somewhat despite still being incorporeal. Compassion, its body made of flowing formless light now resided where the vision of Talon had been, its presence not quite as all-encompassing as Truth’s but still powerful. With words that were felt, not heard it turned to Truth and Wynne and greeted them. 

And with that Anders remembered.

Everything.

He was only vaguely aware of Truth returning Compassion’s greeting as a door in his mind he hadn’t realized was closed burst open, releasing a flood of memories. The day he had dreamed about was a memory older than a day—was something that had happened before he went to Velun. He remembered being summoned; remembered the outdoor class; remembered the Templars; remembered the fight. Remembered…

_…Talon. How he stood in front of him as Anders cast shields over the group; how he fought like a rage demon while Anders allowed his fear and will to live flood their bond—the only contribution he could make after being Smited. For a moment he thought Talon would best them and they would walk away from this alive. Then Talon slipped—and suddenly Anders felt only panic followed by horror as the sword slammed into his body, killing him instantly. And after that: despair. Dark and absolute, it filled him completely as their bond was severed and a black hole opened in his heart, as empty as the void and slowly consuming him. He heard terrible screams and sobs as he unconsciously reached out for his dead Guardian—a soul-deep instinct to seek comfort from his bound partner—only to feel nothing. Not even the smallest hint that the bond had ever been. And as the darkness in him grew, stealing his breath and smothering him from within, he began to wonder if the bond had ever even been there in the first place._

_It wasn’t until the Templars clapped him in chains and dragged him away, unresisting that he realized the screams and sobs were coming from him…_

He could feel the darkness within him creeping up now—a slow terrible poison that would eventually consume and kill him. _Maker_ it hurt! The pain, now as fresh as when Talon had died was unlike anything he had ever felt. And yet somehow it only managed to worsen as he remembered the rest: _Relina, still possessing the strength to fight and struggle as they were dragged far away despite her Guardian’s death; the Templars bringing out a rod and silencing her for good by making her Tranquil before moving on to the other adult mages; the slaver dens and countless nights of travel; the endless thirst and hunger as they were given only enough food and water to stay alive; the fortress and the cells; the magebane; the torture; the rapes; the darkness; the silence punctuated whenever his cell door was opened by the screams of the young students—students he had helped to train; had healed and comforted; had watched grow. And all the while, the void in his heart grew ever larger, ever greater, making him almost long for when the Templars came. The pain they inflicted no matter how brutal or violating was an almost welcome distraction from the pain caused by his Guardian’s death._

_And he remembered the demons. Like moths to a flame they had been drawn to his suffering, coming to him in pairs, in groups, in waves. Despair demons whispered it was his fault—his fault they were there; his fault the students were being tortured in the dark; his fault the adults had been made Tranquil; his fault Talon lay dead, his body rotting far, far away. Desire demons told him how they could make everything right—give him back Talon; free him; make the Templars pay; make it as though none of this had ever happened. Rage demons tempted him with bloody revenge; sloth demons tempted him with death, with sleep, with letting go and sliding away to a place where he could never be hurt again…and so on. And all he had to was cut his throat—close his eyes—just say **yes** —just give up, just **give in**! Anders was sorely tempted. Each new thing offered became harder and harder to refuse with each new visit from the Templars. But he did not give in—he resisted with every last ounce of his diminishing strength, reminding himself what was at stake, that demons were liars and giving in would lead to death for the others as well as himself. When that reminder wasn’t enough, he thought of Talon and how he would want him to fight with every last breath—and of Karl, who was out there, somewhere, searching for him frantically no doubt. He refused to give in, to break, so long as Karl was looking for him. And when the pain and the hunger was almost too much to bare and he could feel himself slipping, he would recite passages from the Chant—and pray to the Maker for strength, for release, for deliverance when he felt himself falling even then. _

_And it worked—somehow he stayed sane and resolute no matter the torture, no matter the offer—until…_

_Ser Alrik, Ser Karras and the other Templars he recognized stood out among the faces of those who were strangers. They had all been especially cruel, as though the fact that he knew them was cause for him to face worse torture and humiliation at their hands. But it was Alrik and Karras who had been the worse. It was they who brought in the iron table with magebane-covered tools. And it was they who entered his cell one time with the worst torture of all—bringing in Karl only for Anders to see that he had been made Tranquil._

_He had felt like what was left of his heart was being wrenched in two as a ragged, broken scream tore its way past his throat, almost drowning out the sound of the Templars’ laughter. They told Karl to stay by the door and watch then proceeded to torture Anders. His sobs were punctuated with shrieks and cries of pain as they were unusually harsh even for them. Though he knew Karl would not help him after being told to just watch he still pleaded for help, reaching out with bloodied fingers and begging with his eyes long after losing his voice from screaming. And as expected: Karl stood stock still, hands by his sides, watching with eyes that were cold, apathetic, devoid of all life._

_When they finally tired of hurting him they left with Karl, once again locking Anders away in the dark, shackled with magebane as well as iron chains, naked and broken, the only sound that of his wretched sobbing. After that, Anders truly began to lose all hope._

_With Talon gone, more than the Chant’s words and his prayers, the knowledge that Karl was still out there searching for him had been what had given him the strength not only to fight and resist temptation, but to keep the core of himself locked away deep inside, protected from even the worst torments so he could heal and take up some semblance of his life once he was freed. Now, with them both gone, there was nothing to keep the void in his soul at bay. He felt not just alone but abandoned, thinking even the Maker had forsaken him. He did not pray that time, or recite any passages from the Chant. There was no point, he thought. Talon was dead and Karl was Tranquil. No one was coming for him; he would not be saved. Instead he sat there in the oppressive darkness and longed for death as he felt his will to fight, to stay sane and whole, slip away. He knew, without a doubt, that when next the Templars came he would not fight them, for they had done it—they had broken him._

_The demons felt this—and descended. Their whispers, so loud in the silent cell, were soft and sticky like spider webs; they filled his mind, making it hard to think beyond what they offered. And this time, Anders found himself actually **listening**_ _to what they had to say—actually **considering**_. _He thought, maybe, just maybe, they were not lying; maybe they really would give him what they promised. Talon and Karl were gone—the Templars had won—what was there left to lose? Anything had to be better than this endless suffering. Maybe giving in would not be the horror the Chantry claimed it to be…_

_Yet even as most of him considered this, there was still a part of him—a small, desperate part—that recoiled at that thought and refused to give in. It was the part of himself that he had locked away; the part of him that had been the source of his fire and drive; had held on tightly to the hope that Karl would come for him; had been what made him a Healer—was what still made him Alhmanic. Somehow this part had not yet broken—and it was unwilling to give up. It reached out as far as it could and let out one last, desperate plea into the Void. It begged that someone, anyone, would help; would, for just a bit longer keep him unbroken, sane and strong enough to resist._

_And…he was answered. A spirit of compassion had heard him cry out. He thought it a miracle—the Maker had not abandoned him! Instead He sent this spirit to aid him in his most desperate moment when hope felt like a fading memory. Compassion crashed into the demons, its light piercing them like arrows and drowning out their whispers-turned-screams until they faded away, releasing him and clearing his mind. It was like they had never even been there. Then it wrapped him up in arms made of cleansing light that soothed and quieted the void in his soul as it searched his memories—and suddenly they were moving; the cell, the darkness, the pain inside and out, was all gone, replaced by multi-colored light that was almost blinding, but comforting instead of painful. Then—warmth followed by the feeling of falling, but slowly, like sinking into a warm bath, or a soft mattress. And suddenly: he was home, in bed, with Talon. There was the slightest feeling like he should remember something—he’d been somewhere else; somewhere painful and frightening. And there was something important he should remember—but then the feeling is gone like the fragment of a dream, and it’s his Name-day and he is safe and loved and all is well…_

Except all was not well. Everything around him had been nothing but a lie, a vision that Compassion had created based on one of Anders’ memories in order to protect him. He knew he should feel grateful that the spirit had quite literally saved him—but he could only feel remorse and pain so intense he could not breathe or think; could only let the tears fall freely and the screams tear out of him as he collapsed to his knees.

He was vaguely aware of the little spirits trying desperately to cheer him up. They swirled around him, their voices light and airy and encouraging while their presence flowed over him, filling him with warmth and reminding him of times of joy and things that made him laugh and smile. It may have worked—if so many of those things were not connected to Talon in some way. And so instead of helping, the spirits’ efforts only caused his grief to worsen and the tears to flow faster. Anders hugged himself so tight his arms ached, and hunched over until his head touched what passed for the ground in the Fade. Sobs racked his frame as he rocked himself, wishing he could die.

Truth and Compassion came over and shooed the small spirits away. They left without resistance, their light dimmed by the knowledge that they had failed to help him. And then the two greater spirits were gone as well and Wynne was kneeling beside him, an arm around his shoulders drawing him gently toward her. He didn’t resist—practically threw himself into her arms so hard he almost knocked her over, in fact. He so desperately needed to be held at that moment, he idly thanked the Maker she was not a demon; he didn’t doubt he was easy pickings for a possession with how vulnerable he was. Then her arms were around him and he let the grief fully take over as she offered him her silent support.

When his sobs had quieted somewhat, Anders eyes blinked opened as he felt Wynne gently lifted his chin with her fingers until his gaze was eye-level with hers. Eyes filled with regret and sorrow, she said, “Alhmanic, I am so sorry. If there was _any_ way to bring Talon back…” she paused, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “But only the Maker can raise the dead.”

Anders squeezed his eyes shut at the reminder, his chest heaving as he began again to sob in earnest. Keeping a gentle but firm grip on his chin, she continued, “I am _truly_ sorry. But we must go. Compassion did well watching over you but you have been here too long; you cannot stay!” A pause as Anders continued to sob, then: “We found the Templars.”  

The harsh tone of her voice was such a stark contrast from the beseeching one she had used just a moment before that—though he did not stop crying altogether—his sobs quieted to erratic hiccups as he opened his eyes in shock at the sudden change. Wynne’s eyes were now a stormy, angry blue, her mouth almost a snarl as she said, “The things they did—most were dead when we found them but a few still live and they will pay for their crimes, Alhmanic, mark my words!”

Then her eyes softened and her tone gentled again as she said, “You are safe from the Templars now, but we need to go back to Velun so we can get you a new Guardian—”

“ _NO!_ ” Anders cried, pushing her away and scrambling back as though he’d been burned.  

“Alhmanic!” she said, reaching out to him. “Please—!”

“No! I don’t want another Guardian— _I want Talon!_ ” He wanted _his_ Guardian—the one who had held him up and carried him throughout his life; was with him when he had cast magic for the first time outside the Circle without supervision; was with him when he got his first cat (a beautiful white fluffy thing he had named Princess Fluffy-bottom and who he had cried over when she died). The one who had kept him from killing himself healing and protected him; was with him through every high and low, every relationship, every break-up—the only true constant in his life until the moment he had died protecting him from Templars. What he did _not_ want, did _not need_ , was some _stranger_ who knew nothing about him trying to take Talon’s place. Anders clutched his head tightly and curled into a ball as though trying to hide from the idea. _No one_ could replace Talon; _no one!_

Wynne gently placed a hand on his knee. “I know, Alhmanic, but Talon is gone,” she said with enough firm finality to make him flinch, “and there is no bringing him back. So we need to go back to Velun so you can be given a new Guardian—”

“What’s the point!?” he shouted, lifting his head so he could glare at her defiantly, his eyes red from crying. “Getting a new Guardian will not change the fact that Talon is gone!” His face crumbled as he sagged, feeling lost and dejected. “And I…” Anders took a deep, shuddering breath, clutching his chest tightly then continued his voice small and broken, “I just _can’t_ let another person into that part of myself.” And the on top of all of that, Karl was also dead—Tranquility was but a death sentence after all. The two people who meant the most in his life were gone; there was no point in returning and being bound again. _It would be easier…_ , he thought, slowly lifting his head and staring off into the distance, not actually seeing the Fade; instead, he saw Talon standing before the gates of the Golden City, a smile on his face and his arms open wide, beckoning him forward. _…So much easier, to just slide away_. He was halfway there already—every soul passed through the Fade before they reached the Maker—he could just…let go. Just stand up and finish the journey. It would be painless—easy—and then he would see Talon again, and all _would_ be well!

Wynne must’ve seen something on his face that hinted at his thoughts because she said, “Alhmanic, I know that after all that has happened you are reluctant to return, but you must not give up! Think about the people you will be leaving behind if you do not return!”

Anders wanted to turn to her and scream out all his frustration and hopeless. He wanted to say: _What about them? With everything the Templars did to me, I would just be a burden to them!_ But he couldn’t get the words out. The moment the thought formed, Truth surged forward and started tearing his doubts apart, replacing them with truth.

As it did so, Wynne said, “They love you, Anders, and would mourn you if you did not return—and rejoice if you did!” Anders almost thought he could almost feel Truth nodding in response to her words, stating they were the truth: his family would not see him as a burden—they would be overjoyed that he lived.  

Anders wanted to believe her and the spirit—but it was so hard. He knew one cannot lie in the presence of a Truth spirit, and yet, even with Wynne’s words ringing with Truth’s presence…“They probably think I’m dead,” he murmured, looking away. He thought back to all the times his cell door would open and he would think: _this is it, they’ve finally come for me, I’ll be free!_ —only to be greeted again by the sight of Templars.

  “They fear that, yes, but still they hope you live. They have been praying that the Maker will bring you back. If your mother, your friends, were to find out that you are truly gone because you did not want to return—” she shook her head, looking distraught at the idea.

“Then tell them you were too late,” he retorted, going back to staring at the Fade’s landscape. He imagined he could almost hear Talon calling to him. And maybe he could; maybe one of those voices echoing back and forth was Talon calling him home. “Just let me be, let me go” he whispered, hardly hearing himself as he strained his hearing, thinking, yes, that was Talon! He was waiting for him!

“I cannot do that, Alhmanic,” Wynne said sternly, bringing him out of his thoughts. He growled in frustration. “Why _not?_ ” he shouted turning to glare at her again.

“Because I am a Healer,” she stated. Though her voice was low and calm, her eyes shown with a fierceness that made Anders think of a large, fearsome predator. “And part of a Healer’s oath is to do all in their power to carry out their Maker-given purpose. If I let you stay here—or wander off into the Fade in hopes of finding your way to the Maker as you seem so inclined to do—then your body will eventually wither away and die. And it would be my fault, because instead of doing all I could to convince you to return, I would be stepping aside and in a very real since letting you kill yourself—and therefore I would have broken that oath.”

Anders flinched at her words. He, like all other Healers, had taken that oath after being bound. And being a Healer, he could understand the terrible guilt she would feel if she broke it. But at the same time, he was so very tired—he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, shaking his head as more tears fell. Yes, he understood her drive to take him back but Maker he wished oath or no oath that she would just let him go!

“And on top of that,” she added, “it would be a lie. A terrible one that would bring unnecessary sorrow to many people.” 

“It won’t be a lie if I do it.”

“That is not the poin—”

Anders laughed bitterly. “No, it’s not! The point is that while I may be a Healer I’m not more important than anyone else!”

“You are to your friends, to your mother, to the many, many patients you heal every day!”

Anders shook his head, staring unseeingly at the ground as he clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. “My friends have each other; my mother has her parents and her friends—they’ll move on eventually. And my patients would get another Healer in time. Like you—assuming you haven’t been reassigned yet, that is.” Sighing, defeated, he quietly said, “I’m just one mage out of thousands after all.”

“You are one mage, yes. One who is beloved in the city of Kirkwall as well as everywhere you have served; one who will be mourned long after you have gone, not only by those you have helped but by those who know you and love you for who you are! And above all else: you are a Healer. In that respect, you one among a handful that Thedas cannot afford to lose, because you are meant to care for and to heal—to make the hard choices others can’t no matter their strength because they don’t understand. Because they can’t connect to the Fade like we do. Because they have never been in the position of having _so much_ healing power and _still_ having to decide to keep trying—or make the call that despite everything it is still not enough and all we can do is make sure the one we are helping can go to the Maker’s side as painlessly as possible! And they have never, after all that, had to then tell that person’s family—their friend—their lover—the stranger who had carried them there because there was no one else to help them—that they are gone; that even with all our power we could not save them.”

Anders shook his head harder and squeezed his eyes shut again, as though doing so would block out her words. He wanted to deny what she said, but even without Truth condoning he knew she was right. Only Healers knew what that was like; to have what looked even to most other mages like unlimited power, only to realize that sometimes it really wasn’t enough. Magic could only do so much, and there were some things it just couldn’t heal.

He wanted to curl up again but before he could, she took his hands in hers and said, “You are strong. You are a fighter, Alhmanic! Not just because you are a Healer, but because you have survived so much. Even as a Healer born with the will and bravery it takes to do what we do every day, you should not have survived what you did—and yet here you, unbroken and sane despite everything! You cannot give up!”

When Anders simply shook his head and looked away yet again, Wynne, desperate, said, “Your Guardian died for you, Alhmanic!”

Making a shocked, pained sound, Anders looked up at her, his expression a mix of betrayed hurt and rage. Through clenched teeth, he snarled, “I. Already. _Know that_!” He was shaking. How dare she bring up Talon that way, and then spit that back in his face after everything else! He remembered the Despair demons’ whispers about how it was his fault Talon was gone and they had been taken. If he could have been just a bit faster—if he could have summoned Peace like he was trying to—none of this would have happened.

Again Truth surged forward started to tear those thoughts apart with shocking ferocity. At the same moment Wynne said, “Do you? Or do you blame yourself? I can see it your eyes, Alhmanic and Truth and I are here to tell you— _it is not your fault!_ Talon did not die _because_ of you—he died _for you_! He died in his effort to protect you; to save you; to give you a chance! He would not want you to just give up now and waste this chance, so don’t! Don’t give in—don’t make his sacrifice be in vein! Because if you do, those who _did_ kill Talon—who hurt you and all those other mages—will have won!”

She went quiet then, watching him with a pleading expression. Anders closed his eyes and hung his head, thinking. He still felt it was cruel for her to bring up Talon like that, despite her not actually blaming him for his Guardian’s death. And yet, deep down her words resonated. That same part that had cried out and been heard by Compassion was now screaming at him that Wynne was right. As was Truth; the spirit was still going through his thoughts, picking out and shredding all his doubts and self-accusations and replacing them with truth. It was _not_ his fault Talon died and the others were captured—it was the fault of the Templars who had killed him and the others. And while Talon was gone, he would not want him to give up. He would want him to keep fighting, to return with her and see his friends and family again—to keep healing—to continue to carry out the Maker’s will—to take the chance that was given to him now that the Templars were no longer a threat. And then another thought struck him; one that Truth latch onto and pushed to the front of Anders’ mind, causing a small spark of hope to flare in his chest: there were theories that Tranquility could be cured. Maybe, just maybe, Karl could be saved too, and then at least he would have his lover back.

And Anders knew for a fact that Talon would not want him to pass up even the smallest chance of being with Karl again; of enjoying his life; of living.

Suddenly filled with a hope so strong it managed to push some of the darkness within him back, Anders looked Wynne directly in the eyes and said, “Alright. I’ll go with you.”

The relief on her face was almost palpable. She smiled, a few tears leaking out of her eyes before she wiped them away and stood up, drawing Anders up with her. “Then let’s go home.”

At some point, the little spirits had wondered off, leaving them alone with Compassion and Truth. She turned to them and said with a bow, “Thank you for all you have done.”

The spirits seemed to dim and shrink for a moment before returning to their original brightness and size. Anders guessed that was what spirits looked like when bowing in their true forms. Then Compassion drew close until it was a hair’s breath away from Anders. It reached out with a tendril of light and touched his forehead—and for a moment he felt as though he _was_ filled with unlimited power. His blood sang with golden light and the air tasted of undiluted Lyrium, as though he had swallowed an entire vein of it. He felt as though he could travel every inch of the Fade in an instant and for a moment he felt like he did—and as he did a presence stirred. One that was ancient and powerful beyond imagining, it’s thoughts deep and unfathomable. Then the moment passed and Anders was again himself with his limited supply of mana, the taste of Lyrium gone.

Anders stumbled and clutched his head, feeling disoriented at the sudden change. Wynne clutched his arm to keep him steady, asking if he was alright. Before he could answer a voice that was more a feeling than any kind of sound or thought spoke in his head:

 _A gift, for later_. 

Compassion left immediately after the words were spoken, disappearing into the distance—and then it was just Anders, Wynne and Truth. It was then that Anders noticed the music. It was sweet and alluring and was just on the edge of hearing, like a feeling he couldn’t quite shake. He was uncertain whether it had always been there in the background or if it just started, but either way he knew it was what would lead them back to the waking world.

Wynne linked her hands with his then closed her eyes and started chanting in tune with the music. Anders followed her lead, adding his mana to the spell so they could return more easily. Though he was still wary toward the idea of getting a new Guardian, he was eager to return now—to see if Karl could be cured. And if so, to be in his lover’s arms again. Oh Marker how he missed Karl. He prayed the Maker would cure him so they could be together again—and finally announce to everyone Karl’s proposal, and Anders’ acceptance. Anders smiled as he chanted.

His mother would be so happy.

Power started to swirl and dance around them, manifesting more physically in the Fade than it ever could in the waking world. It moved to the sound of the music that now grew louder and louder in synch with their voices. The air crackled and grew heavy with the scent of magic and Lyrium as their forms started to glow. A light soon appeared between them as though together they held a star in their hands. The light intensified as the music and their voices continued to increase in tempo and volume. Brighter and brighter it grew, drowning out even their voices and the music until it was all Anders could see, hear, feel. It reached a sudden crescendo—

A flash so bright spirits and demons alike saw it from far away—though no demon dared go near with Truth there. Then Truth was alone. It watched, seeming to wait for something. After a moment where nothing happened, it turned away and continued its search for any lies to strip away.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 Anders slammed back into his body and woke with a shuttering gasp. Through the feelings of dizziness and nausea, he was vaguely aware of an echoing gasp from behind him accompanied by surprised exclamations. He could barely focus on this however as he let out another gasp as his stomach lurched before vomiting. Another exclamation and there was a pair of large but gentle hands leaning him forward so that when he vomited again a moment later it all landed in a bucket placed in front of him. A part of him barely registered one of the hands holding his hair out of his face so it would not get soiled. He felt a flicker of gratitude before the thought was forgotten as he vomited a third time. There was nearly nothing in his stomach—and what did come out was thin and mostly bile—and so the fourth time he did not vomit so much as start dry heaving. He was sobbing wretchedly, tears streaming down his face and dripping off his chin, and snot clogging his nose. His lungs burned as he gasped and his throat felt as though he had swallowed acid. The tears and pain worsened as his sobs were broken up by harsh coughs that burned his throat and lungs further and racked his thin frame.  

It felt like forever before he was finally able to stop retching. He went limp with fatigue, and the hands laid him gently back onto what he realized was a cot. A thin sheet lay under him, another across his back, a soft pillow under his head. He felt another flicker of gratitude that was also lost as another fit of coughing plagued him, made worse by the sobs that still wracked his frame.  

Sweet Andraste it hurt to breathe. He was sweating profusely, yet he was shaking, feeling chilled. His breaths were quick and shallow, his pulse rapid though alarmingly weak, and he felt exhausted. Though his eyes were open, he was unable to focus on anything, the world around him appearing as nothing but blurred shapes and colors obscured further by his tears. And he was in pain. Every last inch of his body hurt especially his leg and his back.

And underneath it all, worse than everything else combined, was the ever-growing void in his soul where his bond had once been. He whimpered miserably.  

He’d thought the grief and pain from Talon’s death was bad in the Fade—but here in the waking world, it was so much worse. It felt bigger, as though it had spread farther throughout his soul and it seemed to be consuming him faster. The pain was made worse still by the addition of the physical pain from his wounds and the mental strain caused by all he’d experienced now being forefront in his mind. The combination made it hard for him to think beyond the horrible images that flashed before his eyes making him cringe as his mind replayed the memories of his torture over and over. More whimpers escaped him as he trembled with fear and grief. All the determination, all the hope and courage he had felt when in the Fade with Wynne were gone now that he had returned to his broken, pain-addled body, unable to flee from the memories that haunted him. Now he just wished he could die so all this would end. 

A hand on his head. He flinched with a small, breathless cry, expecting pain. None came. Instead the hand retreated then returned. The touch was light, gentle, stroking his hair as a soft, soothing voice whispered words he could not make out. There was the feeling of strong magic charging followed by the feeling of warming spells being cast over his body. They were accompanied by more quiet words then healing spells that soothed the worst of his pains and rid him of the lesser ones altogether. They also strengthened his heart and slowed his breathing. A soft cloth gently wiped away the snot and tears from his face. He was carefully turned on his side and then a mug of water was held to his lips as a hand gently turned and held up his head enough so he could drink. Though parched, he was too weak to do more than swallow as the cool liquid was poured down his throat. Slowly, he thought idly, so he didn’t choke. This time, the feeling of gratitude stayed and bloomed in his chest. He was still crying, though the coughing fits had thankfully stopped, and his sobs were quieter, some of his tears now those of thankfulness as well as grief.

When he drank all the water, the mug was removed along with the sheet that covered him before he was being gently picked up and cradled to a large, warm chest. There was some shuffling followed by a few whispered spells, and then he was gently lowered back onto his stomach on the cot, clean of vomit and smelling faintly of elfroot. There was no sheet laid atop him; instead more warming and healing spells soaked into his body. He gave a relieved sigh. Whoever was caring for him had been able to treat what he now knew had been symptoms of shock, leaving him feeling hollowed out and even more exhausted than before—but also comfortable, warm, safe. He was no longer dizzy or nauseous, nor was he chilled, and his heart was beating at a slower, steadier, stronger pace that matched his better breathing.

There was another feeling of strong magic charging and the sound of what he now knew to be soft chanting. When the spell was cast, Anders had a sudden feeling that a hole had been made in the veil—not one caused by blood magic, but by spirit magic. Soft whispers, not those of demons but of spirits filled his mind and suddenly he felt as though there was a bright, soothing light inside of him, filling him up and wrapping itself around the void in his heart. While it was unable to heal it—only being bound to a new Guardian or death could truly do anything about that—it was able to sort of…separate him from it. It was like a glass wall was put up between him and the growing emptiness: he could feel it there in the back of his mind, slowly growing ever bigger, but found he could ignore it for the time being. He did not know what spell they had cast to accomplish that, or how long it would last, but he was immensely grateful. He sighed again as his eyes slipped close, a feeling of calm settling over him.

 

Wynne’s relieved sigh was echoed by the others as she sent the spirits home with a silent _thank you_ before slumping on her stool. Alder, as exhausted as she was, rushed to her side. He knelt next to her and drew her close, cradling her to his chest and whispering words of praise in her ear as feelings of pride flowed to her through their bond. She managed to smile up at him before letting it slip from her face as she looked at the unconscious—thankfully _alive_ —Healer lying on the cot. Wynne frowned, a pain of sorrow in her chest. He looked so thin and frail, scars and poultices practically covering his body. He had looked much more like himself in the Fade: filled out, with healthy hair and skin tone, not a mark or scar in sight. She was just glad she had started the healing before retrieving him despite the fact that time had been slipping away.

As she had feared, Alhmanic had immediately gone into shock from their sudden return to the waking world despite his consent to do so. Thankfully it had not been as bad as it would have been should she have gone after him immediately. She was just grateful she and Alder had together had enough strength and mana left to summon Healing spirits to help them. Summoned whenever a Healer needed assistance beyond what their Guardian could give them, Healing spirits were different than other spirits. Though larger than ones such as Laughter and Joy, they were still smaller than spirits such as Love and Wisdom. When summoned, they appeared in groups instead of alone, much like smaller spirits. They would then combine their power to help enhance both the strength and duration of the healing spells being cast as well as the amount of mana available to the caster. This decreased their chance of running out before a healing could be finished. Bringing Alhmanic back had taken more out of her and Alder than she had thought it would even with the Lyrium she took; without the Healing spirits’ assistance, there was a chance they still may have lost him.

After quickly treating Alhmanic’s shock and healing what she could with what mana she could spare, she had summoned the spirits to assist her in putting him to sleep using a sleeping spell. The spell was almost as priceless an asset as Healing spirits. It differed from a potion in that it not only put the patient to sleep but temporarily separated their mind from whatever was causing them pain. This helped prevent nightmares, allowing them to rest unhindered. It had been developed originally for physical pain to be used on those with chronic illnesses and the like, or during healings that were more easily done with, or required, the patient to be, unconscious. However, Healers often tweaked it so that it could be used for emotional and psychological pain as well.

Wynne had feared that it may not work as intended in Alhmanic’s case. While the mental separation was not nearly as dangerous, it was also not as strong as the spiritual one Compassion had helped him achieve. Much of his non-physical pain was a result of his guardian’s death. The pain of such a loss was almost indescribable, so it did not surprise her that Alhmanic’s very spirit had fled his body in an effort to escape that pain. Thankfully it appeared that the spell had worked. With luck, it would continue to work so she could finish the healing and he could get some much needed sleep before they started their journey back to Velun. She knew more would have to be done once he woke again to prevent him from being consumed by loss before they made it back, but for the time being it would have to do. They would cross that other bridge once he was fully, physically healed.

 She sighed and closed her eyes, resting all her weight upon her Guardian. Maker she was tired after casting so many powerful spells in so short a period. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this drained. Her mana was completely gone, her strength nearly so. If not for Alder, she likely would have fallen unconscious herself after sending the Healing spirits back to the Fade. She still had no idea where the man got all his stamina. He was older than her by five years for Maker’s sake!

The Guardian in question laughed at the impression of her thoughts he got through their bond then started humming. The tune was an old familiar one from when they were young—one many a bard would play in raunchy taverns all across Thedas. Wynne chuckled as the sound reverberated through her being, calming her and reminding her of the mischief she and Alder would get into when she was still a student. She had been one of the lucky mages to already know and be quite close to their Guardian before they were Bound. One of the perks of being such close friends with an Escort she supposed.

Wynne opened her eyes and looked over at Fiona when she said, “Healer?” her voice laced with concern.

“Alhmanic will be alright now—as will I. I simply need to rest a bit and replenish my mana before I finish healing him.”

“Is there any way we can help?” Tashaan rumbled.

“You can help by getting some rest yourselves and preparing for our trip to Velun. Alder and I can handle the rest. This is going to be the hardest and most intense part of the healing and I can’t afford any possible distractions. ”

Fiona and Tashaan bowed their heads to her in understanding before leaving the tent.

Wynne sighed again and looked back at Alhmanic. It would take her a good two hours to regain enough mana to finish the healing with her Guardian feeding her strength. Even then she would likely need to garner the aid of more Healing spirits so she did not run out of mana unexpectedly. She hated the idea of waiting but it couldn’t be helped. A Healer can’t heal without mana. She could use her life-force, but doing so would put her at risk of killing herself if she wasn’t careful—not that there was even a chance Alder would ever let her even attempt to do something so risky without going through him first. So, doing her best to ignore the instincts screaming at her to heal, she would force herself to rest for a couple hours (trusting Alder to prevent her from trying to start healing before then) then finish the healing.

Closing her eyes, she allowed Alder’s humming to lull her into a light sleep.

 

 

                                                         

***

 

 

 

Fiona sat just outside her and Tashaan’s tent, her eyes upon the dark sand. She had tried her best to sleep but was unable, despite her exhaustion. She was too restless, too high-strung after all that had happened. Even her Guardian had not been to calm her enough to help her sleep. Her ears twitched even more than usual and her heart started pounding at every scrape and chink of metal, every thump and sound of footsteps. When they were taking Alhmanic to the camp, she had been focused solely on getting there are quickly as possible. Now, with the Healer safe in Wynne’s hands and her mission completed, her mind had had time to truly process all they had gone through in that Maker-forsaken Fortress. Images of rotting corpses, demons, blood and the abomination they had fought flashed before her eyes, making her tense and easily startled.

She felt bad for her Guardian, who kept growling, fingers twitching toward his weapon as her nervousness and fear flooded their bond. It had gotten so bad that after just ten minutes Tashaan had grabbed one of the soldiers and commanded they bring their tent with them to the edge of the camp with a snarl. He had then picked her up, ignoring her protests, and walked until they were a quarter of a mile away from the camp. The soldier and a few others arrived soon after with their tent and they and Tashaan set it up there before he dismissed them. They were quick to comply—a tense and angry Guardian is already a frightening thing, even more so when that Guardian is a Qunari with a Warhammer.

Even then, with noises muffled by distance, her Guardian had not been to help her get to sleep. Finally, after tossing and turning for what felt like hours upon hours, she had told him she was going to go sit outside for a bit. She couldn’t stay in that little tent anymore; the small, dark space reminded her to much of the smothering dark of the Fortress, especially in the cell where they had found Alhmanic. Tashaan had nodded, going with her despite sensing her desire to be alone with her thoughts. When she argued, he stated that it was not good to dwell on such things alone; his presence especially would help for obvious reasons. She gave in with a sigh, and the two sat upon the cool desert sand a few feet from their tent, a small fire helping to offset the cold desert night.

Fiona sighed and leaned further into her Guardian’s side. He tightened his hold in response, his large thumb stroking her shoulder. She had only been in that Fortress for at most a day, and already she was tense and nervous to the point of having to leave the camp. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what Alhmanic was going through, having survived that hell for a year.

Thinking of the cells and the rods and the horrible ways those mages had died, she shuddered violently. Though she supported all the laws and procedures put in place to protect mages, especially unbound students, Fiona had often wondered if some of them—as well as her Guardian’s reactions to anything he perceived as a threat—were not just a little over-the-top. After all, even when he was fast asleep in the Grand Cathedral when they visited the Divine, Tashaan was vigilant to the point where she would think he never slept if not for him following her into her dreams every night. Then Alhmanic and the others had been taken, shaking her to the core. Now she found herself wondering just how many out there felt as those Templars did. Were there other groups keen on destroying mages? Did they also want to revive the Tranquil cult, or did they have other reasons to destroy an entire group of people? History showed that the world was full of fools who thought death was the way to peace. And not everyone liked mages and the Circles, as history was also full of those who preached the idea that mages were monsters; a Maker-sent curse upon Thedas.

But to think that there were those who were so afraid of magic they would go so far as to kidnap and torture children as well as a Healer…Fiona just couldn’t understand it.

She looked up from the ground and into the darkness. Her ears twitching as the calls of desert beasts echoed across the mountainous terrain. Her elven eyes allowed her to see the landscape within it as though it were twilight instead of night; though devoid of shadows she could see clearly what and who was around her despite it being a new moon.

As her gaze roamed over the canyons and hills and the spattering of ancient ruins that made up the Western Approach, her thoughts wandered to the darkness that had filled the ancient Warden fortress. That darkness had not been like any other she had encountered before. It had been an unnatural, almost palpable thing that even elven eyes could not pierce. Until she and the other mages had cast their magelights, she had been as blind in that fortress as any human. At the time she had been too focused on their mission to think much about it, creating a mage light unthinkingly and leading the others forward. Now, it was one of the memories that weighed heaviest on her. She never wanted to be so blind and feel so helpless ever again.

Thinking about it, she wondered if that unnatural darkness had not been a result of the demons that plagued the Fortress. She knew that demons could affect the waking world beyond possession: shades could blind individuals with the darkness that surrounded their bodies, and Despair demons could cause the temperature of the air around them, as well as a person’s body temperature, to lower. Perhaps, since there had been so many demons—especially shades as well as the other smaller demons which resulted in the possessed corpses—their influence had managed to spread throughout the entire Fortress, leading to that darkness that could blind even elves.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of two pairs of footsteps making their way toward her. Heart racing, mind clouding with fear as images of the horrors from the Fortress flashed before her eyes, she grabbed her staff and prepared to strike as she turned sharply to face whoever was approaching. Tashaan did the same, stepping in front of her protectively, teeth barred.

They both relaxed almost immediately after as they realized it was only Wynne and Alder. The older Healer had stopped in her tracks at their sudden move into defensive positions, whereas Alder had instinctively stepped in front of Wynne with a snarl.

“Apologies, Healer,” Fiona said as she and Tashaan sheepishly put their weapons down. “It seems we are still rather on edge after the events in the Fortress.” She gave a small bow of her head, ears still lowered, though now they were lowered in embarrassment instead of fear.

Wynne shook her head with a kind smile. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she said as the now relaxed Guardians returned to their mages’ sides so they could converse without having to talk over their shoulders. “I doubt anyone but the Maker and Andraste could go through such an ordeal without at least a mild case of nerves. _I_ should apologize for startling you and causing your Guardian to worry needlessly.” She turned to Tashaan and bowed her head.

The Guardian just shook his head and stiffly waved away her apology. Fiona smiled and tried her hardest not to laugh—though there was little she could do about the mirth flowing from her to him through their bond. Tashaan was doing his best to appear calm, but she could feel that he was terribly embarrassed at being so tense he mistook a Healer of all people for an enemy.

Patting him on the arm and sending him feelings of love and assurance, Fiona turned to Wynne who had accepted Tashaan’s acknowledgement with a small nod, and said “How is he doing?”

Wynne’s eyes dimmed. She frowned, then, with Alder’s help, lowered herself to the ground with a groan, her Guardian sitting beside her. Fiona and Tashaan did the same, both of them noting how exhausted the Healer looked and the large bags under her eyes.

For a few minutes, Wynne simply leaned against her Guardian and looked into the darkness as Fiona had earlier. She had a haunted, faraway look in her tired eyes. Then she said, “Physically, he is doing well. There are some scars that I could not prevent, including the words, though those are thankfully rather faint. Besides that I was able to fully heal his wounds, inside and out. Mentally and emotionally, however…” she sighed again, closing her eyes and leaning further into Alder. “The most we can do is ease his suffering as best as we can until we get him to Velun and he is given a new Guardian. Praying certainly wouldn’t hurt, either,” she added dryly.

Fiona nodded in agreement. The Maker had kept him alive this long. She only hoped he would live to be bound again. “And what of you?” she asked with concern.

“I am alright,” Wynne assured her, “Just tired after such a hard healing. And thankful—it could have been much, much worse.”

Fiona nodded in agreement again. After that, they all lapsed into a companionable silence. For a while the two exhausted mages simply rested, their Guardians watching over them. A cool breeze blew across the land, ruffling their hair and clothes. It was strange Fiona thought as she did her best not think of the Fortress. The land was so desolate, yet there was some beauty to found even here. The moon cast a soft, silvery glow over the high canyons, and the stars shone brightly in the pitch-black sky. She could pick out all the different constellations. She did so with a small smile, comparing their academic names to their more well-known common names. It always amused her how much the two types of names differed.

“Judex,” Wynne said, startling Fiona out of her thoughts.

“What?” she asked.

Wynne pointed to a constellation that took the shape of a sword pointed downward. “Judex, or as most know it: ‘The Sword of Mercy’. A symbol of the Templar Order. For ages the Templars have been viewed with respect and honor. Now, people have started to view them with suspicion, and may even start to look at the constellation with distaste. The Order would do well to wash its hands of those who killed so many young mages and tortured a Healer, lest they risk Thedas turning against them yet again.”

Fiona’s eyes widened at that. She had known that there would be repercussions after what happened, but she hadn’t thought just what that meant in regards to the rest of the Templar Order. It made sense when she thought about it: five hundred years ago, when the original Tranquil Cult rose to power, the Templar Order had almost been destroyed. The near destruction had been not only due to a split in its ranks between those who saw it their duty to protect mages and those who sought to destroy them, but by the masses of Thedas who viewed them as traitors and murderers. The only thing that had saved the Order was the head of the Seekers and those who followed him marching into the Grand Cathedral and swearing on their lives and their honor that they did not support the Templars who were a part of the Cult, and no longer saw them as brothers and sisters of the Order.

After the first attack, Fiona had noticed how mages and Guardians alike—herself and Tashaan included—had become understandably wary of Templars. She had also noticed how this was quickly followed only a week later by not as many, if any, Templars being stationed around Circle Towers. On top of that, those that were stationed around the Circles, as well as the ones who patrolled the streets, were often given sideways glances, not only by mages and Guardians, but everyone else. There had even been once where she noticed a non-mage mother cross the street to avoid passing a pair of Templars going the opposite way. Fiona had paid little attention to it before, pushing aside her wariness so she could focus as she had had missing mages to find. Now, thinking on it, she realized it was the start of a problem for the Order. Especially since they could not be sure they had caught everyone who was involved. Fiona did not know if things would get as bad for Order as it did five hundred years prior, but either way she agreed with Wynne that the Order would be smart to let all of Thedas know they did not support those monsters’ actions. And sooner rather than later.

Wynne yawned loudly, earning a chuckle and a whispered comment from her Guardian that caused her to smack his arm with an indignant huff. She then stood up and stated she was going to retire to her tent. Fiona and Tashaan wished the Healer and her Guardian a good night and the two pairs parted ways. Wynne returned to her tent while Fiona went with Tashaan to find the Captain. After the Divine had agreed to let Wynne stay at the heavily guarded camp, she had told them the guards’ Captain would be given a raven that Fiona was to send to her left hand, Leliana, with a report after they found the mages.

And so, Fiona did just that. She made sure in her report to detail all of their experiences and findings from the state of the Fortress and their various fights within, to Alhmanic’s condition and Wynne succeeding in healing him. While she was not able to say they had been able to rescue all of the mages, she was thankful she could honestly say the Healer had been rescued and was well (at least as well as a mage could be after losing their Guardian).

As the raven disappeared into the night sky, she could not help but smile. They had all been through hell and back, but despite everything her group and the Healer had all survived and there was the chance the Tranquil could be healed. And with the raven sent off, they were yet closer to that possible healing; to getting Alhmanic a new Guardian; to making sure the Templers who lived paid for their crimes. There would be repercussions that would have to be addressed later down the road—but for now things were starting to look much brighter than they had even a few hours ago.

Tashaan smiled as well as he felt her joy and small bit of relief flow through their bond. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they both went back to their tent. Fiona realized the images that had plagued her earlier were now replaced with imaginings of all the things she hoped would happen when they reached Velun. _Perhaps I’ll give sleep another try_ , she thought.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Leliana looked up as one of her ravens flew throw the window and landed on its perch. She gave an inward sigh of relief at recognizing it as the one she had given to Fiona. Taking off the scroll attacked to its leg and unrolling it, she prayed it held good news. Everyone had been understandably tense and anxious ever sense the first attack. Throughout the last year, the Divine had been getting letters from all over Thedas—even places that did not interact with other countries as much, such as Nevarra and the ever reclusive Anderfels. Each letter held basically the same questions and concerns: were the mages that had not been taken safe? What about the Healers? What was the Divine going to do to prevent further such attacks? How would this affect mage contracts between countries? Did they yet know who had taken the mages? Had the mages been found and rescued yet? Had the perpetrators been captured and punished yet? And so on. The Anderfels King had been especially adamant as the Healer taken was an Anders, sending multiple such letters a week. It was as though he thought sending more letters more often would somehow get his questions answered faster. Despite her irritation, she was hardly surprised.

King (as the Anders called him) jealously horded his mages like a dragon its treasure. He was very selective of where any of his mages, his one Healer especially, was sent. This had resulted in many arguments between him and the Chantry when they wanted to send one of his mages to a place he deemed “unworthy”. Leliana’s eyes tightened in irritation at the thought. The man seemed to forget that while the mages born in his country were his people, they did not necessarily belong to him. Mages belonged to the Maker and therefore the Chantry, meaning that while the Chantry did take the opinions and concerns of the South’s various rulers into account when making mage contracts, it was ultimately the Chantry’s decision to make. Most often they were able to reach an agreement with him whenever such an argument occurred that left him satisfied if still reluctant about where his mages were going. There had, however, been a couple times where the Divine had had to politely but sternly tell him that his mages were not his property, and it was not really his decision to make. Kirkwall had been the second time this had happened. King had scowled at Justinia before literally stomping out of the room like a petulant child.

On top of that, he was almost constantly arguing with the Chantry over trying to raise the amount of money he got for each contract involving one of his mages from the usual 40 percent to as much as 60 percent. And in the case of his Healer he actually wanted 80 percent. He even had the gall to do this over the last year by tacking his arguments on the end of each letter asking after the captured mages. Why the Maker saw fit to give that man a Healer, Leliana would never know.

And with each letter sent to the Divine, Leliana got a report from one of her spies telling her how unrest was slowly spreading throughout the South: people mistrusting Templars to the point of officials complaining about them patrolling the streets and questioning their loyalty to the Chantry and the Divine; mages and Guardians constantly on edge, especially in the case of Healers, afraid they would be attacked and taken away like the others; rumors that the attacks were a sign the Tranquil Cult was rising again, resulting in yet more fear and mistrust. And so on. Leliana had done her best to quickly stomp those rumors out before they spread too far. The last thing they needed was Thedas-wide panic over something that could not be proven. From what her spies had told her, there was little if any evidence that another Cult was rising. At least on the scale it had been 500 years prior. Even if these Templars were trying to revive the cult, they were but a small group that Cassandra had firmly stated did not reflect the views of the Order as a whole.

Even so, as a precaution Divine Justina had lessened the Order’s presence around the Circles and on the streets, even getting rid of it all together in some cases. She had also sent out official statements to all of the South’s countries that she was doing everything in her power to find the mages and bring them home—as well as find the Templars and any accomplices responsible and make sure they were properly punished for their crimes. She had also been very quick in putting all Circles under lockdown, halting the formation of any new mage contracts and bonding ceremonies, and making sure all Healers were either safe in the Grand Cathedral or had extra Guards so they could fulfill their contracts without fear. Thankfully, her swift actions had resulted in lessened fear and panic overall. All though it had not lessened the number of letters sent to her from the South’s many rulers—only increased the number of them asking when the mages would be found and the Templars responsible punished.

After reading Fiona’s report, Leliana found herself both relieved and sorely disappointed. She was beyond grateful that the Healer lived and was on his way to recovering. However, she was greatly saddened by the news that none of the other mages had made it. So many of them had been children…she did not look forward to having to tell their families the bad news. At least in the case of the Tranquil there was a chance they could be cured--but there was nothing they could do to bring back the dead. She also did not look forward to telling the Divine about the rods and the notes Fiona and her group had found in the Fortress. She had hoped the missing rods and the mages were not connected, but was unsurprised to find they were. There would be quite a lot of political fallout from this, little of it good. It would take quite a lot of time and negotiations to reassure all of the South’s rulers and get things back to normal after this. She hoped the fact that she could say the perpetrators had been caught and would be properly punished, and that the Healer had been rescued and would be given a new Guardian in Velun, would at least lessen any backlash. As well as hopefully prevent any of the countries from losing faith in the Chantry or the Divine, and thereby thinking about no longer making mage contracts. In fact, if done right, the coming trial and Bonding Ceremony would be perfect for this, reminding everyone just why Justinia was Divine, and hopefully prevent any rumors that the Divine did not truly do everything she could have. She decided to ask Josephine, her long-time friend, to assist her with this—she was a master at The Game just as Leliana was, and could easily use upcoming events to their advantage. _At the very least, Alhmanic’s mother will be overjoyed._ _And this news should get the Anderfels king off our backs at least partially_ , she thought.

She would leave the handling of the news about the stolen rods to the Divine; as their having been stolen was still not public knowledge, Justinia may decide to continue to keep that and their recovery a secret.

Mind racing with calculations, Leliana started writing letters and sending out ravens to all corners of Southern Thedas, the first two of which were headed to Josephine and Divine Justinia. After all the ravens had been sent, she started preparing for her trip to the Grand Cathedral to accompany the Divine to Velun.

A sudden thought made her pause before she shook her head with an exasperated snort. There was no getting around it; she was going to have to send out one more raven. Whether she did or not, the news was going to cause quite an uproar across Thedas, and by the time she and the Divine had reached Velun no doubt even the lowliest person would have heard the news. But it would better that he got the news from her now rather than later from some random source—Garrett Hawke was not at all a subtle man and had a temper that could rival an angry Guardian. If he heard that Alhmanic had been rescued and rebound after the fact, she had no doubt he would cause his own small uproar since Alhmanic was a friend of his. While that could be dealt with, it was in all honesty much simpler and less time-consuming to send him a raven now and then make sure they were prepared for his no doubt explosive arrival in Velun.

Maker willing, Leliana thought as the final raven was sent off, things would go back to normal within the year if they played their cards right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr as diamonddragon33!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr as diamonddragon33


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